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LETTERS FROM 
DOROTHY OSBORNE 



TO 



SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE 

1652-54 



Edited by 

Edward Abbott Parry 

{Barrister-at-Lavi) 



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lack. Here are letters for you. 

Post. Their tenor good, I trust? 
lack. 'Tis very like. 

Cymbeline, Act ii. Sc. U. 



Printed for Dodd, Mead, & Company, 

753 and 755 Broadway, New York, 

MDCCCLXXXVIII. 

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[The Rights of Translation and of Reproduction are reserved.} 



TO 

MY DAUGHTER 

HELEN 

THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED 

EXEMPLI GRATIA. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAP. PAGE 

I. Introduction, i 

II. Early Letters. Winter and Spring 1652-53, . 24 

III. Life at Chicksands. 1653, .... 56 

IV. Despondency. Christmas 1653, . . .197 

V. The Last of Chicksands. February and 

March 1654, . . . . . . .221 

VI. Visiting. Summer 1654, 270 

VII. The End of the Third Volume, . . . 316 

Appendix — Lady Temple, . . . . 322 

Index, 329 



The two Portraits are from the originals by Sir Peter Ze/y, in the 
possession of Sir George Osborn, Bart., of Chicksands Priory. 



CHAPTER I. 



INTRODUCTION. 



" An editor," says Dr. Johnson, is " he that revises or 
prepares any work for publication ;" and this definition of 
an editor's duty seems wholly right and satisfactory. 
But now that the revision of these letters is apparently 
complete, the reader has some right to expect a formal 
introduction to a lady whose name he has, in all 
probability, never heard ; and one may not be over- 
stepping the modest and Johnsonian limits of an editor's 
office, when the writing of a short introduction is included 
among the duties of preparation. 

Dorothy Osborne was the wife of the famous Sir 
William Temple, and apology for her biography will 
be found in her own letters, here for the first time 
published. Some of them have indeed been printed 
in a Life of Sir William Temple by the Right 
Honourable Thomas Peregrine Courtenay, a man better 
known to the Tory politician of fifty years ago than 
to any world of letters in that day or this. Forty- 
two extracts from these letters did Courtenay transfer 
to an Appendix, without arrangement or any form of 
editing, as he candidly confesses ; but not without mis- 
givings as to how they would be received by a people 
thirsting to read the details of the negotiations which 
took place in connection with the Triple Alliance. If 
Courtenay lived to learn that the world had other things 



2 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

to do than pore over dull excerpts from inhuman State 
papers, we may pity his awakening ; but we can never 
quite forgive the apologetic paragraph with which he 
relegates Dorothy Osborne's letters to the mouldy 
obscurity of an Appendix. 

When Macaulay was reviewing Courtenay's book in 
the Edinburgh Review, he took occasion to write a short 
but living sketch of the early history of Sir William 
Temple and Dorothy Osborne. And with this account 
so admirably written, ready at hand, it becomes the 
clear duty of the Editor to quote rather than to rewrite ; 
which he does with the greater pleasure, remembering 
that it was this very passage that first led him to read 
the letters of Dorothy Osborne. 

" W T illiam Temple, Sir John's eldest son, was born in 
London in the year 1628. He received his early educa- 
tion under his maternal uncle, was subsequently sent to 
school at Bishop-Stortford, and, at seventeen, began to 
reside at Emmanuel College, Cambridge, where the 
celebrated Cudworth was his tutor. The times were not 
favourable to study. The Civil War disturbed even the 
quiet cloisters and bowling-greens of Cambridge, pro- 
duced violent revolutions in the government and dis- 
cipline of the colleges, and unsettled the minds of the 
students. Temple forgot at Emmanuel all the little 
Greek which he had brought from Bishop-Stortford, and 
never retrieved the loss; a circumstance which would 
hardly be worth noticing but for the almost incredible 
fact, that fifty years later he was so absurd as to set up 
his own authority against that of Bentley on questions of 
Greek history and philology. He made no proficiency, 
either in the old philosophy which still lingered in the 
schools of Cambridge, or in the new philosophy of which 
Lord Bacon was the founder. But to the end of his life 



Introduction. 3 

he continued to speak of the former with ignorant 
admiration, and of the latter with equally ignorant 
contempt. 

" After residing at Cambridge two years, he departed 
without taking a degree, and set out upon his travels. 
He seems to have been then a lively, agreeable young 
man of fashion, not by any means deeply read, but 
versed in all the superficial accomplishments of a 
gentleman, and acceptable in all polite societies. In 
politics he professed himself a Royalist. His opinions 
on religious subjects seem to have been such as might 
be expected from a young man of quick parts, who had 
received a rambling education, who had not thought 
deeply, who had been disgusted by the morose austerity 
of the Puritans, and who, surrounded from childhood by 
the hubbub of conflicting sects, might easily learn to 
feel an impartial contempt for them all. 

" On his road to France he fell in with the son and 
daughter of Sir Peter Osborne. Sir Peter held Guernsey 
for the King, and the young people were, like their 
father, warm for the Royal cause. At an inn where they 
stopped in the Isle of Wight, the brother amused himself 
with inscribing on the windows his opinion of the ruling 
powers. For this instance of malignancy the whole party 
were arrested, and brought before the Governor. The 
sister, trusting to the tenderness which, even in those 
troubled times, scarcely any gentleman of any party ever 
failed to show where a woman was concerned, took the 
crime on herself, and was immediately set at liberty 
with her fellow-travellers. 

" This incident, as was natural, made a deep impression 
on Temple. He was only twenty. Dorothy Osborne 
was twenty-one. She is said to have been handsome ; 
and there remains abundant proof that she possessed 



4 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

an ample share of the dexterity, the vivacity, and the 
tenderness of her sex. Temple soon became, in the 
phrase of that time, her servant, and she returned his 
regard. But difficulties, as great as ever expanded a 
novel to the fifth volume, opposed their wishes. When 
the courtship commenced, the father of the hero was 
sitting in the Long Parliament ; the father of the 
heroine was commanding in Guernsey for King Charles. 
Even when the war ended, and Sir Peter Osborne 
returned to his seat at Chicksands, the prospects of 
the lovers were scarcely less gloomy. Sir John Temple 
had a more advantageous alliance in view for his son. 
Dorothy Osborne was in the meantime besieged by as 
many suitors as were drawn to Belmont by the fame 
of Portia. The most distinguished on the list was 
Henry Cromwell. Destitute of the capacity, the energy, 
the magnanimity of his illustrious father, destitute also 
of the meek and placid virtues of his elder brother, 
this young man was perhaps a more formidable rival 
in love than either of them would have been. Mrs. 
Hutchinson, speaking the sentiments of the grave 
and aged, describes him as an ' insolent foole,' and 
a ' debauched ungodly cavalier.' These expressions 
probably mean that he was one who, among young 
and dissipated people, would pass for a fine gentle- 
man. Dorothy was fond of dogs, of larger and more 
formidable breed than those which lie on modern 
hearthrugs ; and Henry Cromwell promised that the 
highest functionaries at Dublin should be set to work to 
procure her a fine Irish greyhound. She seems to have 
felt his attentions as very flattering, though his father 
was then only Lord General, and not yet Protector. 
Love, however, triumphed over ambition, and the 
young lady appears never to have regretted her 



Introduction. 5 

decision ; though, in a letter written just at the time 
when all England was ringing with the news of the 
violent dissolution of the Long Parliament, she could 
not refrain from reminding Temple with pardonable 
vanity, ' how great she might have been, if she had 
been so wise as to have taken hold of the offer of H. C 
" Nor was it only the influence of rivals that Temple 
had to dread. The relations of his mistress regarded 
him with personal dislike, and spoke of him as an un- 
principled adventurer, without honour or religion, ready 
to render service to any party for the sake of prefer- 
ment. This is, indeed, a very distorted view of Temple's 
character. Yet a character, even in the most distorted 
view taken of it by the most angry and prejudiced 
minds, generally retains something of its outline. No 
caricaturist ever represented Mr. Pitt as a Falstaff, or 
Mr. Fox as a skeleton ; nor did any libeller ever impute 
parsimony to Sheridan, or profusion to Marlborough. 
It must be allowed that the turn of mind which the 
eulogists of Temple have dignified with the appellation 
of philosophical indifference, and which, however becom- 
ing it may be in an old and experienced statesman, has 
a somewhat ungraceful appearance in youth, might 
easily appear shocking to a family who were ready to 
fight or to suffer martyrdom for their exiled King and 
their persecuted Church. The poor girl was exceed- 
ingly hurt and irritated by these imputations on her 
lover, defended him warmly behind his back, and 
addressed to himself some very tender and anxious 
admonitions, mingled with assurances of her confidence 
in his honour and virtue. On one occasion she was 
most highly provoked by the way in which one of her 
brothers spoke of Temple. 'We talked ourselves 
weary,' she says ; ' he renounced me, and I defied him.' 



6 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

" Near seven years did this arduous wooing continue. 
We are not accurately informed respecting Temple's 
movements during that time. But he seems to have 
led a rambling life, sometimes on the Continent, some- 
times in Ireland, sometimes in London. He made 
himself master of the French and Spanish languages, 
and amused himself by writing essays and romances, 
an employment which at least served the purpose of 
forming his style. The specimen which Mr. Courtenay 
has preserved of these early compositions is by no 
means contemptible : indeed, there is one passage on 
Like and Dislike, which, could have been produced only 
by a mind habituated carefully to reflect on its own 
operations, and which reminds us of the best things in 
Montaigne. 

" Temple appears to have kept up a very active corre- 
spondence with his mistress. His letters are lost, but 
hers have been preserved ; and many of them appear in 
these volumes. Mr. Courtenay expresses some doubt 
whether his readers will think him justified in inserting 
so large a number of these epistles. We only wish that 
there were twice as many. Very little indeed of the 
diplomatic correspondence of that generation is so well 
worth reading." 

Here Macaulay indulges in an eloquent but lengthy 
philippic against that "vile phrase" the "dignity of 
history," which we may omit, — taking up the thread of 
his discourse where he recurs to the affairs of our two 
lovers. "Thinking thus,"— concerning the "dignity of 
history," — "we are glad to learn so much, and would 
willingly learn more about the loves of Sir William and 
his mistress. In the seventeenth century, to be sure, 
Louis the Fourteenth was a much more important 
person than Temple's sweetheart. But death and time 



Introduction. 7 

equalize all things. Neither the great King nor the 
beauty of Bedfordshire, neither the gorgeous paradise 
of Marli nor Mistress Osborne's favourite walk ' in the 
common that lay hard by the house, where a great 
many young wenches used to keep sheep and cows and 
sit in the shade singing of ballads,' is anything to us. 
Louis and Dorothy are alike dust. A cotton-mill stands 
on the ruins of Marli ; and the Osbornes have ceased to 
dwell under the ancient roof of Chicksands. But of 
that information, for the sake of which alone it is worth 
while to study remote events, we find so much in the 
love letters which Mr. Courtenay has published, that 
we would gladly purchase equally interesting billets 
with ten times their weight in State papers taken at 
random. To us surely it is as useful to know how the 
young ladies of England employed themselves a 
hundred and eighty years ago, how far their minds 
were cultivated, what were their favourite studies, what 
degree of liberty was allowed to them, what use they 
made of that liberty, what accomplishments they most 
valued in men, and what proofs of tenderness delicacy 
permitted them to give to favoured suitors, as to know 
all about the seizure of Franche-Comte and the Treaty 
of Nime£ruen. The mutual relations of the two sexes 
seem to us to be at least as important as the mutual 
relations of any two Governments in the world ; and a 
series of letters written by a virtuous, amiable, and 
sensible girl, and intended for the eye of her lover alone, 
can scarcely fail to throw some light on the relations of 
the sexes ; whereas it is perfectly possible, as all who 
have made any historical researches can attest, to read 
bale after bale of despatches and protocols, without 
catching one glimpse of light about the relations of 
Governments. 



8 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

" Mr. Courtenay proclaims that he is one of Dorothy 
Osborne's devoted servants, and expresses a hope that 
the publication of her letters will add to the number. 
We must declare ourselves his rivals. She really seems 
to have been a very charming young woman, modest, 
generous, affectionate, intelligent, and sprightly ; a 
Royalist, as was to be expected from her connections, 
without any of that political asperity which is as un- 
womanly as a long beard ; religious, and occasionally 
gliding into a very pretty and endearing sort of preach- 
ing, yet not too good to partake of such diversions as 
London afforded under the melancholy rule of the 
Puritans, or to giggle a little at a ridiculous sermon from 
a divine who was thought to be one of the great lights 
of the Assembly at Westminster ; with a little turn for 
coquetry, which was yet perfectly compatible with warm 
and disinterested attachment, and a little turn for satire, 
which yet seldom passed the bounds of good nature. 
She loved reading ; but her studies were not those of 
Queen Elizabeth and Lady Jane Grey. She read the 
verses of Cowley and Lord Broghill, French Memoirs 
recommended by her lover, and the Travels of Fernando 
Mendez Pinto. But her favourite books were those 
ponderous French romances which modern readers 
know chiefly from the pleasant satire of Charlotte 
Lennox. She could not, however, help laughing at the 
vile English into which they were translated. Her own 
style is very agreeable ; nor are her letters at all the worse 
for some passages in which raillery and tenderness are 
mixed in a very engaging namby-pamby. 

"When at last the constancy of the lovers had 
triumphed over all the obstacles which kinsmen and 
rivals could oppose to their union, a yet more serious 
calamity befell them. Poor Mistress Osborne fell ill of 



Introdzcction. 9 

the small-pox, and, though she escaped with life, lost 
all her beauty. To this most severe trial the affection 
and honour of the lovers of that age was not unfre- 
quently subjected. Our readers probably remember 
what Mrs. Hutchinson tells us of herself. The lofty 
Cornelia-like spirit of the aged matron seems to melt 
into a long forgotten softness when she relates how her 
beloved Colonel ' married her as soon as she was able 
to quit the chamber, when the priest and all that saw 
her were affrighted to look on her. But God,' she 
adds, with a not ungraceful vanity, ' recompensed his 
justice and constancy by restoring her as well as before.' 
Temple showed on this occasion the same justice and 
constancy which did so much honour to Colonel 
Hutchinson. The date of the marriage is not exactly 
known, but Mr. Courtenay supposes it to have taken 
place about the end of the year 1654. From this time 
we lose sight of Dorothy, and are reduced to form our 
opinion of the terms on which she and her husband 
were from very slight indications which may easily 
mislead us." 

When an editor is in the pleasant position of being 
able to retain an historian of the eminence of Macaulay 
to write a large portion of his introduction, it would 
ill become him to alter and correct his statements 
wherever there was a petty inaccuracy ; still it is neces- 
sary to say, once for all, that there are occasional errors 
in the passage, — as where Macaulay mentions that 
Chicksands is no longer the property of the Osbornes, 
— though happily not one of these errors is in itself 
important. To our thinking, too, in the character that 
he draws of our heroine, Macaulay hardly appears to be 
sufficiently aware of the sympathetic womanly nature of 
Dorothy, and the dignity of her disposition ; so that he 



io Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

is persuaded to speak of her too constantly from the 
position of a man of the world praising with patronizing 
emphasis the pretty qualities of a school-girl. But we 
must remember, that in forming our estimate of her 
character, we have an extended series of letters before 
us ; and from these the reader can draw his own conclu- 
sions as to the accuracy of Macaulay's description, and 
the importance of Dorothy's character. 

It was this passage from Macaulay that led the 
Editor to Courtenay's Appendix, and it was the literary 
and human charm of the letters themselves that 
suggested the idea of stringing them together into a 
connected story or sketch of the love affairs of Dorothy 
Osborne. This was published in April 1886 in the 
English Illustrated Magazine, and happened, by good 
luck, to fall into the hands of an admirer of Dorothy, 
who, having had access to the original letters, had made 
faithful and loving copies of each one, — accurate even 
to the old-world spelling. These labours had been 
followed up by much patient research, the fruits of 
which were now to be generously offered to the present 
Editor on condition that he would prepare the letters for 
the press. The owner of the letters having courteously 
expressed his acquiescence, nothing remained but to 
give to the task that patient care that it is easy to give 
to a labour of love. 

A few words of explanation as to the arrangement of 
the letters. Although few of them were dated, it was 
found possible, by minute analysis of their contents, to 
place them in approximately correct order ; and if one 
could not date each letter, one could at least assign 
groups of letters to specific months or seasons of the 
year. The fact that New Year's day was at this period 
March 25 — a fact sometimes ignored by antiquarians 



Introduction. 1 1 

of high repute — adds greatly to the difficulty of ascer- 
taining exact dates, and as an instance of this we 
find in different chronicles of authority Sir Peter 
Osborne's death correctly, yet differently, given as 
happening in March 1653 and March 1654. Through- 
out this volume the ordinary New Year's day has been 
retained. The further revision and preparation that the 
letters have undergone is shortly this. The spelling has 
been modernized, the letters punctuated and arranged 
in paragraphs, and names indicated by initials have 
been, wherever it was possible, written in full. A note 
has been prefixed to each letter, printed in smaller type 
than the letter itself, and dealing with all the allusions 
contained in it. This system is very fit to be applied 
to Dorothy's letters, because, by its use, Dorothy is 
left to tell her own story without the constant and 
irritating references to footnotes or Appendix notes 
that other arrangements necessitate. The Editor has 
a holy horror of the footnote, and would have it 
relegated to those " biblia a-biblia " from which class he 
is sure Elia would cheerfully except Dorothy's letters. 
In the notes themselves the endeavour has been to 
obtain, where it was possible, parallel references to 
letters, diaries, or memoirs, and the Editor can only 
regret that his researches, through both MSS. and printed 
records, have been so little successful. In the case 
of well-known men like Algernon Sydney, Lord Man- 
chester, Edmund Waller, etc., no attempt has been made 
to write a complete note, — their lives and works being 
sufficiently well known ; but in the case of more obscure 
persons, — as, for instance, Dorothy's brother-in-law, Sir 
Thomas Peyton, — all the known details of their history 
have been carefully collected. Yet in spite of patience, 
toil, and the kindness of learned friends, the Editor is 



12 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

bound to acknowledge that some names remain mere 
words to him, and but too many allusions are mysteriously 
dim. 

The division of the letters into chapters, at first sight 
an arbitrary arrangement, really follows their natural 
grouping. The letters were written in the years 1653 
and 1654, and form a clear and connected story of the 
love affairs of the young couple during that time. The 
most important group of letters, both from the number 
of letters contained in it and the contents of the letters 
themselves, is that entitled "Life at Chicksands, 1653." 
The Editor regards this group as the very mainland of 
the epistolary archipelago that we are exploring. For 
it is in this chapter that a clear idea of the domestic 
social life of these troublous times is obtainable, none 
the less valuable in that it does not tally altogether 
with our preconceived and too romantic notions. Here, 
too, we find what Macaulay longed for — those social 
domestic trivialities which the historians have at length 
begun to value rightly. Here are, indeed, many things 
of no value to Dryasdust and his friends, but of 
moment to us, who look for and find true details of life 
and character in nearly every line. And above all 
things, here is a living presentment of a beautiful 
woman, pure in dissolute days, passing quiet hours of 
domestic life amongst her own family, where we may 
all visit her and hear her voice, even in the very tones in 
which she spoke to her lover. 

And now the Editor feels he must augment Macaulay's 
sketch of Dorothy Osborne with some account of the 
Osborne family, of whom it consisted, what part it took 
in the struggle of the day, and what was the past 
position of Dorothy's ancestors. All that can be 
promised is, that such account shall be as concise as 



Introduction. 1 3 

may be consistent with clearness and accuracy, and 
that it shall contain nothing but ascertained facts. 

There were Osbornes — before there were Osbornes 
of Chicksands — who, coming out of the north, settled 
at Purleigh in Essex, where we find them in the year 
1442. From this date, passing lightly over a hundred 
troubled years, we find Peter Osborne, Dorothy's great- 
grandfather, born in 1521. He was Keeper of the 
Purse to Edward VI., and was twice married, his second 
wife being Alice, sister of Sir John Cheke, a family we 
read of in Dorothy's letters. One of his daughters, 
named Catharine, — he had a well-balanced family of 
eleven sons and eleven daughters, — afterwards married 
Sir Thomas Cheke. Peter Osborne died in 1592; and 
Sir John Osborne, Peter's son and Dorothy's grand- 
father, was the first Osborne of Chicksands. It was 
he who settled at Chicksands, in Bedfordshire, and 
purchased the neighbouring rectory at Hawnes, to 
restore it to that Church of which he and his family 
were in truth militant members ; and having generously 
built and furnished a parsonage house, he presented 
it in the first place to the celebrated preacher Thomas 
Brightman, who died there in 1607. It is this rectory 
that in 1653-54 is in the hands of the Rev. Edward 
Gibson, who appears from time to time in Dorothy's 
letters, and who was on occasions the medium through 
which Temple's letters reached their destination, and 
avoided falling into the hands of Dorothy's jealous 
brother. Sir John Osborne married Dorothy Barlee, 
grand-daughter of Richard Lord Rich, Lord Chancellor 
of England in the reign of Henry VIII. Sir John was 
Treasurer's Remembrancer in the Exchequer for many 
years during the reign of James I., and was also a 
Commissioner of the Navy. He died November 2, 1628, 



14 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

and was buried in Campton Church, — Chicksands lies 
between the village of Hawnes and Campton, — where a 
tablet to his memory still exists. 

Sir John had five sons : Peter, the eldest, Dorothy's 
father, who succeeded him in his hereditary office 
of Treasurer's Remembrancer ; Christopher, Thomas, 
Richard, and Francis, — Francis Osborne may be men- 
tioned as having taken the side of the Parliament in the 
Civil Wars. He was Master of the Horse to the Earl 
of Pembroke, and is noticeable to us as the only known 
relation of Dorothy who published a book. He was the 
author of an Advice to his Son, in two parts, and some 
tracts published in 1722, of course long after his death. 

Of Sir Peter himself we had at one time thought to 
write at some length. The narrative of his defence of 
Castle Cornet for the King, embodied in his own letters, 
in the letters and papers of George Carteret, Governor 
of Jersey, in the detailed account left behind by a 
native of Guernsey, and in the State papers of the 
period, is one of the most interesting episodes in an 
epoch of episodes. But though the collected material 
for some short life of Sir Peter Osborne lies at hand, it 
seems scarcely necessary for the purpose of this book, 
and so not without reluctance it is set aside. 

Sir Peter was an ardent loyalist. In his obstinate 
flesh and blood devotion to the house of Stuart he was 
as sincere and thorough as Sir Henry Lee, Sir Geoffrey 
Peveril, or Kentish Sir Byng. He was the incarnation 
of the malignant of latter-day fiction. 

" King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 
Give a rouse ; here's in hell's despite now, 
King Charles." 

To this text his life wrote the comment. 



Introduction. 1 5 

In 162 1, James I. created him Lieutenant-Governor of 
Guernsey. He had married Dorothy, daughter of Sir 
John Danvers. Sir John was the younger brother and 
heir to the Earl of Danby, and was a Gentleman of the 
Privy Chamber to the King. Clarendon tells us that he 
got into debt, and to get out of debt found himself in 
Cromwell's counsel ; that he was a proud, formal, weak 
man, between being seduced and a seducer, and that he 
took it to be a high honour to sit on the same bench 
with Cromwell, who employed him and contemned him 
at once. The Earl of Danby was the Governor of 
Guernsey, and Sir Peter was his lieutenant until 1643, 
when the Earl died, and Sir Peter was made full 
Governor. It would be in 1643 that the siege of Castle 
Cornet began, the same year in which the rents of the 
Chicksands estate were assigned away from their right- 
ful owner to one Mr. John Blackstone, M.P. Sir Peter 
was in his stronghold on a rock in the sea ; he was for 
the King. The inhabitants of the island, more com- 
fortably situated, were a united party for the Parliament. 
Thus they remained for three years ; the King writing 
to Sir Peter to reduce the inhabitants to a state of 
reason; the Parliament sending instructions to the 
jurats of Guernsey to seize the person of Sir Peter ; and 
the Earl of Warwick, prompted, we should suppose, by 
Sir John Danvers, offering terms to Sir Peter which 
he indignantly rejected. Meanwhile Lady Osborne 
— Dorothy with her, in all probability — was doing 
her best to victual the castle from the mainland, 
she living at St. Malo during the siege. At length, 
her money all spent, her health broken down, she 
returned to England, and was lost to sight. Sir 
Peter himself heard nothing of her, and her sons in 
England, who were doing all they could for their 



1 6 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

father among the King's friends, did not know of her 
whereabouts. 

In 1646 he resigned his command. He was weary 
and heavy laden with unjust burdens heaped on him by 
those for whom and with whom he was fighting; he was 
worn out by the siege ; by the characteristic treachery 
of the King, who, being unable to assist him, could not 
refrain from sending lying promises instead ; and by the 
malice of his neighbour, George Carteret, Governor of 
Jersey, who himself made free with the Guernsey 
supplies, while writing home to the King that Sir Peter 
has betrayed his trust. Betrayed his trust, indeed, when 
he and his garrison are reduced to " one biscuit a day 
and a little porrage for supper," together with limpets 
and herbs in the best mess they can make ; nay, more, 
when they have pulled up their floors for firewood, and 
are dying of hunger and want in the stone shell of 
Castle Cornet for the love of their King. However, cir- 
cumstances and Sir George Carteret were too much for 
him, and, at the request of Prince Charles, he resigned 
his command to Sir Baldwin Wake in May 1646, 
remaining three years after this date at St. Malo, where 
he did what he was able to supply the wants of the 
castle. Sir Baldwin surrendered the castle to Blake 
in 1650. It was the last fortress to surrender. 

In 1649 Sir Peter, finding the promises of reward 
made by the Prince to be as sincere as those of his 
father, returned to England, and probably through the 
intervention of his father-in-law, who was a strict Par- 
liament man, his house and a portion of his estates at 
Chicksands were restored to him. To these he retired, 
disappointed in spirit, feeble in health, soon to be bereft 
of the company of his wife, who died towards the end 
of 1650, and, but for the constant ministering of his 



Introduction. 1 7 

daughter Dorothy, living lonely and forgotten, to see 
the cause for which he had fought discredited and dead. 
He died in March 1654, after a long, weary illness. 
The parish register of Campton describes him as " a 
friend to the poor, a lover of learning, a maintainer of 
divine exercises." There is still an inscription to his 
memory on a marble monument on the north side of 
the chancel in Campton church. 

Sir Peter had seven sons and five daughters. There 
were only three sons living in 1653; the others died 
young, one laying down his life for the King at Hart- 
land in Devonshire, in some skirmish, we must now 
suppose, of which no trace remains. Of those living, Sir 
John, the eldest son and the first baronet, married his 
cousin Eleanor Danvers, and lived in Gloucestershire 
during his father's life. Henry, afterwards knighted, was 
probably the jealous brother who lived at Chicksands 
with Dorothy and her father, with whom she had many 
skirmishes, and who wished in his kind fraternal way 
to see his sister well — that is to say, wealthily — 
married. Robert is a younger brother, a year older 
than Dorothy, who died in September 1653, and who 
did not apparently live at Chicksands. Dorothy her- 
self was born in 1627 ; where, it is impossible to say. 
Sir Peter was presumably at Castle Cornet at that date, 
but it is doubtful if Lady Osborne ever stayed there, 
the accommodation within its walls being straitened 
and primitive even for that day. Dorothy was probably 
born in England, maybe at Chicksands. Her other 
sisters had married and settled in various parts of 
England before 1653. Her eldest sister (not Anne, as 
Wotton conjectures) married one Sir Thomas Peyton, 
a Kentish Royalist of some note. What little could be 
gleaned of his actions from amongst Kentish antiquities 



1 8 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

and history, and such letters of his as lie entombed in 
the MSS. of the British Museum, is set down hereafter. 
He appears to have acted, after her father's death, as 
Dorothy's guardian, and his name occurs more than 
once in the pages of her letters. 

So much for the Osbornes of Chicksands ; an 
obstinate, sturdy, quick-witted race of Cavaliers ; linked 
by marriage to the great families of the land ; aristocrats 
in blood and in spirit, of whom Dorothy was a worthy 
descendant. Let us try now and picture for ourselves 
their home. Chixon, Chikesonds, or Chicksands Priory, 
Bedfordshire, as it now stands, — what a pleasing various 
art was spelling in olden time, — was, in the reign of 
Edward III., a nunnery, situated then, as now, on a 
slight eminence, with gently rising hills at a short dis- 
tance behind, and a brook running to join the river Ivel, 
thence the German Ocean, along the valley in front of 
the house. The neighbouring scenery of Bedfordshire 
is on a humble scale, and concerns very little those who 
do not frequent it and live among it, as we must do for 
the next year or more. 

The Priory is a low-built sacro-secular edifice, well 
fitted for its former service. Its priestly denizens were 
turned out in Henry VIII.'s monk -hunting reign 
(1538). To the joy or sorrow of the neighbourhood, 
— who knows now? Granted then to one Richard 
Snow, of whom the records are silent ; by him sold, 
in Elizabeth's reign, to Sir John Osborne, Knt., thus 
becoming the ancestral home of our Dorothy. There 
is a crisp etching of the house in Fisher's Collections 
of Bedfordshire. The very exterior of it is Catholic, 
unpuritanical ; no methodism about the square windows, 
set here and there at undecided intervals wheresoever 
they may be wanted. Six attic windows jut out from 



Introduction. 1 9 

the low -tiled roof. At the corner of the house is a 
high pinnacled buttress rising the full height of the 
wall ; five buttresses flank the side wall, built so that 
they shade the lower windows from the morning sun, 
— in one place reaching to the sill of an upper window. 
At the further end of the wall are two Gothic windows, 
claustral remnants, lighting now perhaps the dining- 
hall where cousin Molle and Dorothy sat in state, or 
the saloon where the latter received her servants. 
There are still cloisters attached to the house, at the 
other side of it maybe. Yes, a sleepy country house, 
the warm earth and her shrubs creeping close up to 
the very sills of the lower windows, sending in morning 
fragrance, I doubt not, when Dorothy thrust back the 
lattice after breakfast. A quiet place, — "slow" is the 
accurate modern epithet for it — "awfully slow;" but 
to Dorothy a quite suitable home, at which she never 
repines. 

This etching by Thomas Fisher, of December 26, 
1 8 16, is the more valuable to us since the old Chick- 
sands Priory no longer remains, having suffered martyr- 
dom at the bloody hands of the restorer. For through 
this partly we have attained to a knowledge of 
Dorothy's surroundings ; and through the baronetages, 
peerages, and the invincible heaps of genealogical records, 
we have gathered some few actual facts necessary to be 
known of Dorothy's relations, her human surroundings, 
their lives and actions. And we shall not find ourselves 
following Dorothy's story with the less interest that we 
have mastered these details about the Osbornes of 
Chicksands. 

Temple, too, claims the consideration at our hands of 
a few words concerning his near relatives and their posi- 
tion in the country. As Macaulay tells us, he was born 



20 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

in 1628, the place of his birth being Blackfriars in 
London. 

Sir John Temple, his father, was Master of the Rolls 
and a Privy Councillor in Ireland; he was in the confi- 
dence of Robert Sidney, Earl of Leicester, the Lord- 
Lieutenant of Ireland. Algernon Sydney, the Earl's 
son, was well known to Temple, and perhaps to Dorothy. 
Sir John Temple, like his son in after life, refused to 
look on politics as a game in which it was always 
advisable to play on the winning side, and thus we 
find him opposing the Duke of Ormond in Ireland in 
1643, an d suffering imprisonment as a partisan of the 
Parliament. In England, in 1648, when he was member 
for Chichester, he concurred with the Presbyterian vote, 
thereby causing the more advanced section to look 
askance at him, and he was turned out of the House, 
or secluded, to use the elegant parliamentary language 
of the day. From that time he lived in retirement in 
London until 1654, when, as we read in Dorothy's 
letters, he and his son go over to Ireland. Pie 
resumed his office of Master of the Rolls, and in August 
of that year was elected to the Irish Parliament as one 
of the members for Leitrim, Sligo, and Roscommon. 

Temple's mother was a sister of Dr. Hammond, to 
whom one Dr. John Collop, a poetaster unknown in 
these days even by name, begins an ode — 

"Seraphic Doctor, bright evangelist." 

The "seraphic Doctor" was rector of Penshurst, near 
Tunbridge Wells, the seat of the Sydneys. From Ham- 
mond, who was a zealous adherent of Charles I., Temple 
received much of his early education. When the Par- 
liament drove Dr. Hammond from his living, Temple 
was sent to school at Bishop-Stortford ; and the rest 



Introduction. 2 1 

of his early life, with an account of his meeting with 
Dorothy, has been already set down for us by Macaulay. 
Anno Domini sixteen hundred and fifty -three; — 
let us look round through historic mist for land- 
marks, so that we may know our whereabouts. The 
narrow streets of Worcester had been but lately 
stained by the blood of heaped corpses. Cromwell 
was meditating an abolition of the Parliament, and a 
practical coronation of himself. The world had ceased 
to wonder at English democracy giving laws to their 
quondam rulers, and the democracy was beginning to be 
a little tired of itself, to disbelieve in its own irksome 
discipline, and to sigh for the flesh-pots of a modified 
Presbyterian monarchy. Cromwell, indeed, was at the 
height of his glory, his honours lie thick upon him, and 
now, if ever, he is the regal Cromwell that Victor Hugo 
has portrayed, the uncrowned King of England, tram- 
pling under foot that sacred liberty, the baseless ideal 
for which so many had fought and bled. He is soon to 
be Lord Protector. He is second to none upon earth. 
England is again at peace with herself, and takes her 
position as one of the great Powers of Europe ; Cromwell 
is England's king. So much for our rulers and politics. 
Now let us remember our friends, those whom we love 
on account of the work they have doue for us and 
bequeathed to us, through which we have learned to 
know them. One of the best beloved and gentlest of 
these, who by the satire of heaven was born into 
England in these troublous times, was now wander- 
ing by brook and stream, scarcely annoyed by the 
uproar and confusion of the factions around him. And 
what he knew of England in these days he has left in 
perhaps the gentlest and most peaceful volume the 
world has ever read. I speak of Master Izaak Walton, 



22 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

who in this year, 1653, published the first edition of his 
Compleat Angler, and left a comrade for the idle hours 
of all future ages. Other friends we have, then living, 
but none so intimate or well beloved. Mr. Waller, whom 
Dorothy may have known, Mr. Cowley, Sir Peter Lely, 
— who painted our heroine's portrait, — and Dr. Jeremy 
Taylor ; very courtly and superior persons are some 
of these, and far removed from our world. Milton is too 
sublime to be called our friend, but he was Cromwell's 
friend at this time. Evelyn, too, is already making notes 
in his journal at Paris and elsewhere ; but little prattling 
Pepys has not yet begun diary-making. Other names 
will come to the mind of every reader, but many of 
these are " people we know by name," as the phrase runs, 
mere acquaintances, — not friends. Nevertheless even 
these leave us some indirect description of their time, 
from which we can look back through the mind's eye 
to this year of grace 1653, in which Dorothy was living 
and writing. Yes, if we cannot actually visualize the 
past, these letters will at least convince us that the past 
did exist, a past not wholly unlike the present ; and if 
we would realize the significance of it, we have the 
word of one of our historians, that there is no lamp 
by which to study the history of this period that gives 
a brighter and more searching light than contem- 
porary letters. Thus he recommends their study, and 
we may apply his words to the letters before us: 
" A man intent to force for himself some path through 
that gloomy chaos called History of the Seventeenth 
Century, and to look face to face upon the same, may 
perhaps try it by this method as hopefully as by 
another. Here is an irregular row of beacon fires, once 
all luminous as suns ; and with a certain inextinguishable 
crubescence still, in the abysses of the dead deep Night. 



Introduction. 23 

Let us look here. In shadowy outlines, in dimmer and 
dimmer crowding forms, the very figure of the old dead 
Time itself may perhaps be faintly discernible here." 

With this, I feel that I may cast off some of the forms 
and solemnities necessary to an editorial introduction, 
and, assuming a simpler and more personal pronoun, 
ask the reader, who shall feel the full charm of 
Dorothy's bright wit and tender womanly sympathy, 
to remember the thanks due to my fellow -servant, 
whose patient, single-hearted toil has placed these 
letters within our reach. And when the reader shall 
close this volume, let it not be without a feeling of 
gratitude to the unknown, whose modesty alone prevents 
me from changing the title of fellow-servant to that 
of fellow-editor. 



CHAPTER II. 

EARLY LETTERS. WINTER AND SPRING 
1652-53. 

Tins first chapter begins with a long letter, dated from 
Chicksands sometime in the autumn of 1652, when 
Temple has returned to England after a long absence. 
It takes us up to March 1653, about the end of which 
time Dorothy went to London and met Temple again. 
The engagement she mentions must have been one that 
her parents were forcing upon her, and it was not until 
the London visit, I fancy, that her friendship progressed 
beyond its original limits ; but in this matter the reader 
of Dorothy's letters will be as well able to judge as 
myself. 

Letter 1. — Goring House, where Dorothy and Temple 
had last parted, was in 1646 appointed by the House of 
Commons for the reception of the French Ambassador. 
In 1665 it was the town house of Mr. Secretary Bennet, 
afterwards Lord Arlington. Its grounds stood much 
in the position of the present Arlington Street, and 
Evelyn speaks of it as an ill-built house, but capable of 
being made a pretty villa. 

Dorothy mentions, among other things, that she has 
been " drinking the waters," though she does not say at 
what place. It would be either at Barnet, Epsom, or 
Tunbridge, all of which places are mentioned by con- 



Early Letters. 25 

temporary letter-writers as health resorts. At Barnet 
there was a calcareous spring with a small portion of sea 
salt in it, which, as we may gather from a later letter, 
had been but recently discovered. This spring was after- 
wards, in the year 1677, endowed by one John Owen, 
who left the sum of ,£1 to keep the well in repair "as 
long as it should be of service to the parish." Towards 
the end of last century, Lyson mentions that the well 
was in decay and little used. One wonders what has 
become of John Owen's legacy. The Epsom spring 
had been discovered earlier in the century. It was the 
first of its kind found in England. The town was 
already a place of fashionable resort on account of its 
mineral waters ; they are mentioned as of European 
celebrity ; and as early as 1609 a ball-room was erected, 
avenues were planted, and neither Bath nor Tunbridge 
could rival Epsom in the splendour of their appoint- 
ments. Towards the beginning of the last century, 
however, the waters gradually lost their reputation. 
Tunbridge Wells, the last of the three watering-places 
that Dorothy may have visited, is still flourishing and 
fashionable. Its springs are said to have been dis- 
covered by Lord North in 1606 ; and the fortunes of 
the place were firmly established by a visit paid to the 
springs by Queen Henrietta Maria, acting under medical 
advice, in 1630, shortly after the birth of Prince Charles. 
At this date there was no adequate accommodation for 
the royal party, and Her Majesty had to live in tents on 
the banks of the spring. An interesting account of the 
early legends and gradual growth of Tunbridge Wells is 
to be found in a guide-book of 1768, edited by one Mr. 
J. Sprange. 

The elderly man who proposed to Dorothy was Sir 
Justinian Isham, Bart., of Lamport in Northampton- 



26 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

shire. He himself was about forty-two years of age at 
this time, and had lost his first wife (by whom he had 
four daughters) in 1638. The Rev. W. Betham, with 
that optimism which is characteristic of compilers of 
peerages, thinks " that he was esteemed one of the 
most accomplished persons of the time, being a gentle- 
man, not only of fine learning, but famed for his piety 
and exemplary life." Dorothy thinks otherwise, and 
writes of him as " the vainest, impertinent, self-conceited, 
learned coxcomb that ever yet I saw." Peerages in 
Dorothy's style would perhaps be unprofitable writing. 
The " Emperor," as Dorothy calls him in writing to 
Temple, may feel thankful that his epitaph was in other 
hands than hers. He appears to have proposed to her 
more than once, and evidently had her brother's good 
offices, which I fear were not much in his favour with 
Dorothy. He ultimately married the daughter of 
Thomas Lord Leigh of Stoneleigh, sometime in the 
following year. 

Sir Thomas Osborne, a Yorkshire baronet, afterwards 
Earl of Danby, is a name not unknown in history. He 
was a cousin of Dorothy ; his mother, Elizabeth Danvers, 
being Dorothy's aunt. He afterwards married Lady 
Bridget Lindsay, the Earl of Lindsay's daughter, and 
the marriage is mentioned in due course, with Dorothy's 
comments. His leadership of the " Country Party," 
when the reins of government were taken from the 
discredited Cabal, is not matter for these pages, neither 
are we much concerned to know that he was greedy of 
wealth and honours, corrupt himself, and a corrupter of 
others. This is the conventional character of all states- 
men of all dates and in all ages, reflected in the mirror 
of envious opposition ; no one believes the description 
to be true. Judged by the moral standard of his con- 



Early Letters. 27 

temporaries, he seems to have been at least of average 
height. How near was Dorothy to the high places of 
the State when this man and Henry Cromwell were 
among her suitors ! Had she been an ambitious woman, 
illustrious historians would have striven to do justice to 
her character in brilliant periods, and there would be 
no need at this day for her to claim her place among 
the celebrated women of England. 



Sir, — There is nothing' moves my chanty like 
gratitude ; and when a beggar is thankful for a 
small relief, I always repent it was not more. 
But seriously, this place will not afford much 
towards the enlarging of a letter, and I am grown 
so dull with living in't (for I am not willing to 
confess yet I was always so) as to need all helps. 
Yet you shall see I will endeavour to satisfy 
you, upon condition you will tell me why you 
quarrelled so at your last letter. I cannot guess 
at it, unless it were that you repented you told 
me so much of your story, which I am not 
apt to believe neither, because it would not 
become our friendship, a great part of it consist- 
ing (as I have been taught) in a mutual con- 
fidence. And to let you see that I believe it 
so, I will give you an account of myself, and 
begin my story, as you did yours, from our 
parting at Goring House. 

I came down hither not half so well pleased as 
I went up, with an engagement upon me that I 
had little hope of shaking off, for I had made use 



28 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

of all the liberty my friends would allow me to 
preserve my own, and 'twould not do ; he was 
so weary of his, that he would part with it upon 
any terms. As my last refuge I got my brother 
to go down with him to see his house, who, when 
he came back, made the relation I wished. He 
said the seat was as ill as so good a country would 
permit, and the house so ruined for want of living 
in't, as it would ask a good proportion of time and 
money to make it fit for a woman to confine her- 
self to. This (though it were not much) I was 
willing to take hold of, and made it considerable 
enough to break the engagement. I had no 
quarrel to his person or his fortune, but was in 
love with neither, and much out of love with a 
thing called marriage ; and have since thanked 
God I was so, for 'tis not long since one of my 
brothers writ me word of him that he was killed 
in a duel, though since I have heard that 'twas 
the other that was killed, and he is fled upon 't, 
which does not mend the matter much. Both 
made me glad I had 'scaped him, and sorry 
for his misfortune, which in earnest was the 
least return his many civilities to me could 
deserve. 

Presently, after this was at an end, my mother 
died, and I was left at liberty to mourn her loss 
awhile. At length my aunt (with whom I was 
when you last saw me) commanded me to wait 
on her at London ; and when I came, she told 



Early Letters. 29 

me how much I was in her care, how well she 
loved me for my mother's sake, and something 
for my own, and drew out a long set speech 
which ended in a good motion (as she call'd it) ; 
and truly I saw no harm in't, for by what I had 
heard of the gentleman I guessed he expected a 
better fortune than mine. And it proved so. 
Yet he protested he liked me so well, that he was 
very angry my father would not be persuaded to 
give ^1000 more with me; and I him so ill, that 
I vowed if I had ^1000 less I should have 
thought it too much for him. And so we parted. 
Since, he has made a story with a new mistress 
that is worth your knowing, but too long for a 
letter. I'll keep it for you. 

After this, some friends that had observed a 
gravity in my face which might become an elderly 
man's wife (as they term'd it) and a mother-in- 
law, proposed a widower to me, that had four 
daughters, all old enough to be my sisters ; but 
he had a great estate, was as fine a gentleman 
as ever England bred, and the very pattern of 
wisdom. I that knew how much I wanted it, 
thought this the safest place for me to engage in, 
and was mightily pleased to think I had met with 
one at last that had wit enough for himself and 
me too. But shall I tell you what I thought 
when I knew him (you will say nothing on't) : 
'twas the vainest, impertinent, self- conceited, 
learned coxcomb that ever yet I saw; to say 



30 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

more were to spoil his marriage, which I hear is 
towards with a daughter of my Lord Coleraine's ; 
but for his sake I shall take care of a fine gentle- 
man as long as I live. 

Before I have quite ended with him, coming 
to town about that and some other occasions of 
my own, I fell in Sir Thomas's way ; and what 
humour took I cannot imagine, but he made very 
formal addresses to me, and engaged his mother 
and my brother to appear in't. This bred a story 
pleasanter than any I have told you yet, but so 
long a one that I must reserve it till we meet, or 
make it a letter of itself. 

The next thing I designed to be rid on was a 
scurvy spleen that I have been subject to, and to 
that purpose was advised to drink the waters. 
There I spent the latter end of the summer, and 
at my coming home found that a gentleman (who 
has some estate in this country) had been treating 
with my brother, and it yet goes on fair and 
softly. I do not know him so much as to give 
you much of his character : 'tis a modest, melan- 
choly, reserved man, whose head is so taken up 
with little philosophic studies, that I admire how 
I found a room there. 'Twas sure by chance ; 
and unless he is pleased with that part of my 
humour which other people think the worst, 'tis 
very possible the next new experiment may 
crowd me out again. Thus you have all my late 
adventures, and almost as much as this paper will 



Early Letters. 31 

hold. The rest shall be employed in telling you 
how sorry I am you have got such a cold. I am 
the more sensible of your trouble by my own, for 
I have newly got one myself. But I will send 
you that which was to cure me. 'Tis like the 
rest of my medicines : if it do no good, 'twill be 
sure to do no harm, and 'twill be no great trouble 
to take a little on't now and then ; for the taste 
on't, as it is not excellent, so 'tis not very ill. 
One thing more I must tell you, which is that 
you are not to take it ill that I mistook your age 
by my computation of your journey through this 
country ; for I was persuaded t'other day that I 
could not be less than thirty years old by one 
that believed it himself, because he was sure it 
was a great while since he had heard of such a 
one as 

Your humble servant. 



Letter 2. — This letter, which is dated, comes, I think, 
at some distance of time from the first letter. Dorothy 
may have dated her letters to ordinary folk ; but as she 
writes to her servant once a week at least, she seems to 
have considered dates to be superfluous. When Temple 
is in Ireland, her letters are generally dated with the 
day of the month. Temple had probably returned from 
a journey into Yorkshire, — his travels in Holland were 
over some time ago, — and passing through Bedford 
within ten miles of Chicksands, he neglected to pay his 
respects to Dorothy, for which he is duly called to 
account in Letter 3. 



32 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

December 24, 1652. 
Sir, — You may please to let my old servant 
(as you call him) know that I confess I owe much 
to his merits and the many obligations his kind- 
ness and civilities has laid upon me ; but for the 
ten pound he claims, it is not yet due, and I think 
you may do well to persuade him (as a friend) to 
put it in the number of his desperate debts, for 
'tis a very uncertain one. In all things else, pray 
say I am his servant. And now, sir, let me tell 
you that I am extremely glad (whosoever gave 
you the occasion) to hear from you, since (without 
compliment) there are very few persons in the 
world I am more concerned in ; to find that you 
have overcome your long journey, and that you 
are well and in a place where 'tis possible for me 
to see you, is such a satisfaction as I, who have 
not been used to many, may be allowed to doubt 
of. Yet I will hope my eyes do not deceive me, 
and that I have not forgot to read ; but if you 
please to confirm it to me by another, you know 
how to direct it, for I am where I was, still the 
same, and always 

Your humble servant, 

D. Osborne. 

For Mrs. Paynter, 

In Covent Garden. 

(Keep this letter till it be called for.) 



Early Letters. 33 

Letter 3. 

January 2nd, 1653. 

Sir —If there were anything in my letter that 
pleased you I am extremely glad on't, 'twas all 
due to you, and made it but an equal return for 
the satisfaction yours gave me. And whatsoever 
you may believe, I shall never repent the good 
opinion I have with so much reason taken up. 
But I forget myself; I meant to chide, and I 
think this is nothing towards it. Is it possible 
you came so near me as Bedford and would not 
see me ? Seriously, I should not have believed 
it from another ; would your horse had lost all 
his legs instead of a hoof, that he might not have 
been able to carry you further, and you, something 
that you valued extremely, and could not hope to 
find anywhere but at Chicksands. I could wish 
you a thousand little mischances, I am so angry 
with you; for my life I could not imagine how I 
had lost you, or why you should call that a 
silence of six or eight weeks which you intended 
so much longer. And when I had wearied my- 
self with thinking of all the unpleasing accidents 
that might cause it, I at length sat down with a 
resolution to choose the best to believe, which 
was that at the end of one journey you had begun 
another (which I had heard you say you intended), 
and that your haste, or something else, had 
hindered you from letting me know it. In this 



34 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

ignorance your letter from Breda found me. 
But for God's sake let me ask you what you 
have done all this while you have been away ; 
what you have met with in Holland that could 
keep you there so long ; why you went no 
further ; and why I was not to know you went so 
far ? You may do well to satisfy me in all these. 
I shall so persecute you with questions else, when 
I see you, that you will be glad to go thither 
again to avoid me ; though when that will be I 
cannot certainly say, for my father has so small a 
proportion of health left him since my mothers 
death, that I am in continual fear of him, and dare 
not often make use of the leave he gives me to 
be from home, lest he should at some time want 
such little services as I am able to lend him. 
Yet I think to be in London in the next term, 
and am sure I shall desire it because you are 
there. 

Sir, your humble servant. 

Letter 4. — The story of the king who renounced the 
league with his too fortunate friend is told in the third 
book of Herodotus. Amasis is the king, and Polycrates 
the confederate. Dorothy may have read the story in 
one of the French translations, either that of Pierre 
Saliat, a cramped duodecimo published in 1580, or that 
of P. du Ryer, a magnificent folio published in 1646. 

My Lord of Holland's daughter, Lady Diana Rich, 
was one of Dorothy's dearest and most intimate 
friends. Dorothy had a high opinion of her excel- 



Early Letter r 35 

lent wit and noble character, which she Is never tired 
of repeating. We find allusions to her in many of 
these letters ; she is called " My lady," and her name is 
always linked to expressions of tenderness and esteem. 
Her father, Henry Rich, Lord Holland, the second son 
of the Earl of Warwick, has found place in sterner 
history than this. He was concerned in a rising in 
1648, when the King was in the Isle of Wight, the object 
of which was to rescue and restore the royal prisoner. 
This rising, like Sir Thomas Peyton's, miscarried, and 
he suffered defeat at Kingston-on-Thames, on July 7th 
of that year. He was pursued, taken prisoner, and 
kept in the Tower until after the King's execution. 
Then he was brought to trial, and, in accordance with 
the forms and ceremonies of justice, adjudged to death. 
His head was struck off before the gate of Westminster 
Hall one cold March morning in the following year, and 
by his side died Capel and the Duke of Hamilton. 
By marriage he acquired Holland House, Kensington, 
which afterwards passed by purchase into the hands of 
a very different Lord Holland, and has become famous 
among the houses of London. Of his daughter, Lady 
Diana, I can learn nothing but that she died unmarried. 
She seems to have been of a lively, vivacious tempera- 
ment, and very popular with the other sex. There is a 
slight clue to her character in the following scrap of 
letter-writing still preserved among some old manuscript 
papers of the Hutton family. She writes to Mr. Hutton 
to escort her in the Park, adding-—" This, I am sure, you 
will do, because I am a friend to the tobacco-box, and 
such, I am sure, Mr. Hutton will have more respect for 
than for any other account that could be pretended 
unto by 

" Your humble servant " 



36 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

This, with Dorothy's praise, gives us a cheerful 
opinion of Lady Diana, of whom we must always wish 
to know more. 

January 22nd [1653]. 

Sir, — Not to confirm you in your belief in 
dreams, but to avoid your reproaches, I will tell 
you a pleasant one of mine. The night before I 
received your first letter, I dreamt one brought 
me a packet, and told me it was from you. I, that 
remembered you were by your own appointment 
to be in Italy at that time, asked the messenger 
where he had it, who told me my lady, your 
mother, sent him with it to me ; then my memory 
failed me a little, for I forgot you had told me she 
was dead, and meant to give her many humble 
thanks if ever I were so happy as to see her. 
When I had opened the letter I found in it 
two rings ; one was, as I remember, an emerald 
doublet, but broken in the carriage, I suppose, as 
it might well be, coming so far ; t'other was plain 
gold, with the longest and the strangest posy that 
ever was ; half on't was Italian, which for my life 
I could not guess at, though I spent much time 
about it ; the rest was " there was a Marriage in 
Cana of Galilee" which, though it was Scripture, 
I had not that reverence for it in my sleep that I 
should have had, I think, if I had been awake ; 
for in earnest the oddness on't put me into that 
violent laughing that I waked myself with it ; and 
as a just punishment upon me from that hour 



Early Letters. 37 

to this I could never learn whom those rings were 
for, nor what was in the letter besides. This is 
but as extravagant as yours, for it is as likely that 
your mother should send me letters as that I 
should make a journey to see poor people hanged, 
or that your teeth should drop out at this age. 

And to remove the opinions you have of my 
niceness, or being hard to please, let me assure you 
I am far from desiring my husband should be fond 
of me at threescore, that I would not have him 
so at all. 'Tis true I should be glad to have him 
always kind, and know no reason why he should 
be wearier of being my master, than he was of 
being my servant. But it is very possible I may 
talk ignorantly of marriage ; when I come to make 
sad experiments on it in my own person I shall 
know more, and say less, for fear of disheartening 
others (since 'tis no advantage to foreknow a 
misfortune that cannot be avoided), and for fear 
of being pitied, which of all things I hate. Lest 
you should be of the same humour I will not pity 
you, lame as you are ; and to speak truth, if you 
did like it, you should not have it, for you do not 
deserve it. Would any one in the world, but you, 
make such haste for a new cold before the old 
had left him ; in a year, too, when mere colds kill 
as many as a plague used to do ? Well, seriously, 
either resolve to have more care of yourself, or I 
renounce my friendship ; and as a certain king 
(that my learned knight is very well acquainted 



38 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

with), who, seeing one of his confederates in so 
happy a condition as it was not likely to last, sent 
his ambassador presently to break off the league 
betwixt them, lest he should be obliged to mourn 
the change of his fortune if he continued his 
friend ; so I, with a great deal more reason, do 
declare that I will no longer be a friend to one 
that's none to himself, nor apprehend the loss of 
what you hazard every day at tennis. They had 
served you well enough if they had crammed a 
dozen ounces of that medicine down your throat 
to have made you remember a quinzy. 

But I have done, and am now at leisure to tell 
you that it is that daughter of my Lord of Hol- 
land (who makes, as you say, so many sore eyes 
with looking on her) that is here ; and if I know 
her at all, or have any judgment, her beauty is 
the least of her excellences. And now I speak 
of her, she has given me the occasion to make a 
request to you ; it will come very seasonably after 
my chiding, and I have great reason to expect 
you should be in the humour of doing anything 
for me. She says that seals are much in fashion, 
and by showing me some that she has, has set me 
a-longing for some too; such as are oldest and 
oddest are most prized, and if you know anybody 
that is lately come out of Italy, 'tis ten to one but 
they have a store, for they are very common 
there. I do remember you once sealed a letter to 
me with as fine a one as I have seen. It was a 



Early Letters. 39 

Neptune, I think, riding upon a dolphin ; but I'm 
afraid it was not yours, for I saw it no more. 
My old Roman head is a present for a prince. 
If such things come in your way, pray remember 
me. I am sorry my new carrier makes you rise 
so early, 'tis not good for your cold ; how might 
we do that you might lie a-bed and yet I have 
your letter ? You must use to write before he 
comes, I think, that it may be sure to be ready 
against he goes. In earnest consider on't, and 
take some course that your health and my letters 
may be both secured, for the loss of either would 
be very sensible to 

Your humble. 

Letter 5. — Sir Justinian is the lover here described. 
He had four daughters, and it is one of Dorothy's 
favourite jests to offer Temple a mother-in-law's good 
word if he will pay court to one of them when she has 
married the " Emperor." 

Sir, — Since you are so easy to please, sure I 
shall not miss it, and if my idle dreams and 
thoughts will satisfy you, I am to blame if you 
want long letters. To begin this, let me tell you 
I had not forgot you in your absence. I always 
meant you one of my daughters. You should 
have had your choice, and, trust me, they say 
some of them are handsome ; but since things did 
not succeed, I thought to have said nothing on't, 
lest you should imagine I expected thanks for my 



40 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

good intention, or rather lest you should be too 
much affected with the thought of what you have 
lost by my imprudence. It would have been a 
good strengthening to my Party (as you say) ; 
but, in earnest, it was not that I aimed at, I only 
desired to have it in my power to oblige you ; 
and 'tis certain I had proved a most excellent 
mother-in-law. Oh, my conscience ! we should 
all have joined against him as the common enemy, 
for those poor young wenches are as weary of his 
government as I could have been. He mves 
them such precepts, as they say my Lord of 
Dorchester gives his wife, and keeps them so 
much prisoners to a vile house he has in North- 
amptonshire, that if but once I had let them loose, 
they and his learning would have been sufficient 
to have made him mad without my help ; but his 
good fortune would have it otherwise, to which 
I will leave him, and proceed to give you some 
reasons why the other motion was not accepted 
on. The truth is, I had not that longing to ask 
a mother - in - law's blessing which you say you 
should have had, for I knew mine too well to 
think she could make a good one ; besides, I was 
not so certain of his nature as not to doubt 
whether she might not corrupt it, nor so confident 
of his kindness as to assure myself that it would 
last longer than other people of his age and 
humour. I am sorry to hear he looks ill, though 
I think there is no great danger of him. Tis but 



Early Letters. 41 

a fit of an ague he has got, that the next charm 
cures, yet he will be apt to fall into it again upon 
a new occasion, and one knows not how it may 
work upon his thin body if it comes too often ; 
it spoiled his beauty, sure, before I knew him, 
for I could never see it, or else (which is as 
likely) I do not know it when I see it ; besides 
that, I never look for it in men. It was nothing 
that I expected made me refuse these, but some- 
thing that I feared ; and, seriously, I find I want 
courage to marry where I do not like. If we 
should once come to disputes I know who would 
have the worst on't, and I have not faith enough 
to believe a doctrine that is often preach'd, which 
is, that though at first one has no kindness for 
them, yet it will grow strongly after marriage. Let 
them trust to it that think good ; for my part, 
I am clearly of opinion (and shall die in't), that, 
as the more one sees and knows a person that 
one likes, one has still the more kindness for 
them, so, on the other side, one is but the more 
weary of, and the more averse to, an unpleasant 
humour for having it perpetually by one. And 
though I easily believe that to marry one for 
whom we have already some affection will in- 
finitely increase that kindness, yet I shall never 
be persuaded that marriage has a charm to raise 
love out of nothing, much less out of dislike. 

This is next to telling you what I dreamed and 
when I rise, but you have promised to be content 



42 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

with it. I would now, if I could, tell you when 
I shall be in town, but I am engaged to my Lady 
Diana Rich, my Lord of Holland's daughter (who 
lies at a gentlewoman's hard by me for sore eyes), 
that I will not leave the country till she does. 
She is so much a stranger here, and finds so little 
company, that she is glad of mine till her eyes 
will give her leave to look out better. They are 
mending, and she hopes to be at London before 
the end of this next term ; and so do I, though 
I shall make but a short stay, for all my business 
there is at an end when I have seen you, and told 
you my stories. And, indeed, my brother is so 
perpetually from home, that I can be very little, 
unless I would leave my father altogether alone, 
which would not be well. We hear of great 
disorders at your masks, but no particulars, only 
they say the Spanish gravity was much discom- 
posed. I shall expect the relation from you at 
your best leisure, and pray give me an account 
how my medicine agrees with your cold. This 
if you can read it, for 'tis strangely scribbled, will 
be enough to answer yours, which is not very 
long this week ; and I am grown so provident 
that I will not lay out more than I receive, but 
I am just withal, and therefore you know how to 
make mine longer when you please ; though, to 
speak truth, if I should make this so, you would 
hardly have it this week, for 'tis a good while since 
'twas call'd for. Your humble servant. 



Early Letters. 43 

Letter 6. — The journey that Temple is about to take 
may be a projected journey with the Swedish Embassy, 
which was soon to set out. Temple was, apparently, 
on the look-out for some employment, and we hear at 
different times of his projected excursions into foreign 
lands. As a matter of fact, he stayed in and near 
London until the spring of 1654, when he went to 
Ireland with his father, who was then reinstated in his 
office of Master of the Rolls. 

Whether the Mr. Grey here written of made love to 
one or both of the ladies — Jane Seymour and Anne 
Percy — it is difficult now to say. I have been able to 
learn nothing more on the subject than Dorothy tells us. 
This, however, we know for certain, that they both 
married elsewhere ; Lady Jane Seymour, the Duke of 
Somerset's daughter, marrying Lord Clifford of Lones- 
borough, the son of the Earl of Burleigh, and living to 
1679, when she was buried in Westminster Abbey. 
Poor Lady Anne Percy, daughter of the Earl of 
Northumberland, and niece of the faithless Lady Car- 
lisle of whom we read in these letters, was already 
married at this date to Lord Stanhope, Lord Chester- 
field's heir. She died — probably in childbed — in 
November of next year (1654), and was buried at 
Petworth with her infant son. 

Lady Anne Wentworth was the daughter of the 
famous and ill-fated Earl of Strafford. She married 
Lord Rockingham. 

The reader will remember that "my lady" is Lady 
Diana Rich. 

March $t/t [1653]. 
Sir, — I know not how to oblige so civil a 
person as you are more than by giving you the 



44 Letters from Dorothy Osborne, 

occasion of serving a fair lady. In sober earnest, 
I know you will not think it a trouble to let your 
boy deliver these books and this enclosed letter 
where it is directed for my lady, whom I would, 
the fainest in the world, have you acquainted with, 
that you might judge whether I had not reason to 
say somebody was to blame. But had you reason 
to be displeased that I said a change in you 
would be much more pardonable than in him ? 
Certainly you had not. I spake it very inno- 
cently, and out of a great sense how much she 
deserves more than anybody else. I shall take 
heed though hereafter what I write, since you 
are so good at raising doubts to persecute your- 
self withal, and shall condemn my own easy faith 
no more ; for me 'tis a better-natured and a less 
fault to believe too much than to distrust where 
there is no cause. If you were not so apt to 
quarrel, I would tell you that I am glad to hear 
your journey goes forwarder, but you would 
presently imagine that 'tis because I would be 
glad if you were gone ; need I say that 'tis 
because I prefer your interest much before my 
own, because I would not have you lose so good 
a diversion and so pleasing an entertainment (as 
in all likelihood this voyage will be to you), and 
because the sooner you go, the sooner I may 
hope for your return. If it be necessary, I will 
confess all this, and something more, which is, 
that notwithstanding all my gallantry and resolu- 



Early Letters. 45 

tion, 'tis much for my credit that my courage is 
put to no greater a trial than parting with you at 
this distance. But you are not going yet neither, 
and therefore we'll leave the discourse on't till 
then, if you please, for I find no great entertain- 
ment int. And let me ask you whether it be 
possible that Mr. Grey makes love, they say he 
does, to my Lady Jane Seymour? If it were 
expected that one should give a reason for their 
passions, what could he say for himself? He 
would not offer, sure, to make us believe my 
Lady Jane a lovelier person than my Lady Anne 
Percy. I did not think I should have lived to 
have seen his frozen heart melted, 'tis the greatest 
conquest she will ever make ; may it be happy 
to her, but in my opinion he has not a good- 
natured look. The younger brother was a 
servant, a great while, to my fair neighbour, 
but could not be received ; and in earnest I 
could not blame her. I was his confidante and 
heard him make his addresses ; not that I brag 
of the favour he did me, for anybody might have 
been so that had been as often there, and he 
was less scrupulous in that point than one would 
have been that had had less reason. But in my 
life I never heard a man say more, nor less to 
the purpose ; and if his brother have not a better 
gift in courtship, he will owe my lady's favour 
to his fortune rather than to his address. My 
Lady Anne Wentworth I hear is marrying, but 



46 Letters fro7n Dorothy Osborne. 

I cannot learn to whom ; nor is it easy to guess 
who is worthy of her. In my judgment she is, 
without dispute, the finest lady I know (one 
always excepted) ; not that she is at all hand- 
some, but infinitely virtuous and discreet, of a 
sober and very different humour from most of 
the young people of these times, but has as 
much wit and is as good company as anybody 
that ever I saw. What would you give that I 
had but the wit to know when to make an end 
of my letters ? Never anybody was persecuted 
with such long epistles ; but you will pardon my 
unwillingness to leave you, and notwithstanding 
all your little doubts, believe that I am very 
much 

Your faithful friend 

and humble servant, 

D. Osborne. 

Letter 7. — There seem to have been two carriers 
bringing letters to Dorothy at this time, Harrold and 
Collins ; we hear something of each of them in the 
following letters. Those who have seen the present- 
day carriers in some unawakened market-place in the 
Midlands, — heavy, rumbling, two-horse cars of huge 
capacity, whose three miles an hour is fast becoming 
too sluggish for their enfranchised clients ; those who 
have jolted over the frozen ruts of a fen road, behind 
their comfortable Flemish horses, and heard the gossip 
of the farmers and their wives, the grunts of the 
discontented baggage pig, and the encouraging shouts 
of the carrier ; those, in a word, who have travelled 



Early Letters. 47 

in a Lincolnshire carrier's cart, have, I fancy, a more 
correct idea of Dorothy's postmen and their convey- 
ances than any I could quote from authority or draw 
from imagination. 

Lord Lisle was the son of Robert Sidney, Earl of 
Leicester, and brother of the famous Algernon. He sat 
in the Long Parliament for Yarmouth, in the Isle of 
Wight, and afterwards became a member of the Upper 
House. Concerning his embassage to Sweden this is 
again proposed to him in September 1653, but, as we 
read in the minutes of the Council, " when he was desired 
to proceed, finding himself out of health, he desired to 
be excused, whereupon Council still wishing to send 
the embassy — the Queen of Sweden being favourably 
inclined to the Commonwealth — pitched upon Lord 
Whitelocke, who was willing to go." 

To Lady Sunderland and Mr. Smith there are several 
amusing references in these letters. Lady Sunderland 
was the daughter of the Earl of Leicester, and sister of 
Algernon Sydney. She was born in 1620, and at the 
age of nineteen married Henry Lord Spencer, who was 
killed in the battle of Newbury in 1642. After her 
husband's death, she retired to Brington in Northamp- 
tonshire, until, wearied with the heavy load of house- 
keeping, she came to live with her father and mother at 
Penshurst. In the Earl of Leicester's journal, under 
date Thursday, July 8th, 1652, we find : — "My daughter 
Spencer was married to Sir Robert Smith at Penshurst, 
my wife being present with my daughters Strangford, 
and Lacy Pelham, Algernon and Robin Sydney, etc. ; 
but I was in London." From this we may imagine 
the Earl did not greatly approve the match. The 
ubiquitous Evelyn was there, too, to see " ye marriage 
of my old fellow collegian Mr. Robt. Smith ; " and the 



48 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

place being full of company, he probably enjoyed 
himself vastly. Lady Sunderland was the Sacharissa 
of Waller the poet. 



Sir, — I am so great a lover of my bed myself 
that I can easily apprehend the trouble of rising 
at four o'clock these cold mornings. In earnest, 
I'm troubled that you should be put to it, and 
have chid the carrier for coming out so soon ; 
he swears to me he never comes out of town 
before eleven o'clock, and that my Lady Paynter's 
footman (as he calls him) brings her letters two 
hours sooner than he needs to do. I told him 
he was gone one day before the letter came ; 
he vows he was not, and that your old friend 
Collins never brought letters of my Lady Paynter's 
in his life ; and, to speak truth, Collins did not 
bring me that letter. I had it from this Harrold 
two hours before Collins came. Yet it is possible 
all that he says may not be so, for I have known 
better men than he lie ; therefore if Collins be 
more for your ease or conveniency, make use 
of him hereafter. I know not whether my letter 
were kind or not, but I'll swear yours was not, 
and am sure mine was meant to be so. It is 
not kind in you to desire an increase of my 
friendship ; that is to doubt it is not as great 
already as it can be, than which you cannot 
do me a greater injury. 'Tis my misfortune 
indeed that it lies not in my power to give 



Early Letters. 49 

you better testimony on't than words, otherwise 
I should soon convince you that 'tis the best 
quality I have, and that where I own a friend- 
ship, I mean so perfect a one, as time can neither 
lessen nor increase. If I said nothing of my 
coming to town, 'twas because I had nothing 
to say that I thought you would like to hear. 
For I do not know that ever I desired anything 
earnestly in my life, but 'twas denied me, and I 
am many times afraid to wish a thing merely lest 
my Fortune should take that occasion to use me 
ill. She cannot see, and therefore I may venture 
to write that I intend to be in London if 
it be possible on Friday or Saturday come 
sennight. Be sure you do not read it aloud, 
lest she hear it, and prevent me, or drive you 
away before I come. It is so like my luck, 
too, that you should be going I know not whither 
again ; but trust me, I have looked for it ever 
since I heard you were come home. You will 
laugh, sure, when I shall tell you that hearing 
that my Lord Lisle was to go ambassador into 
Sweden, I remember'd your father's acquaintance 
in that family with an apprehension that he might 
be in the humour of sending you with him. But 
for God's sake whither is it that you go ? I 
would not willingly be at such a loss again as 
I was after your Yorkshire journey. If it prove 
as long a one, I shall not forget you ; but in 
earnest I shall be so possessed with a strong 

D 



50 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

splenetic fancy that I shall never see you more 
in this world, as all the waters in England will 
not cure. Well, this is a sad story ; we'll have 
no more on't. 

I humbly thank you for your offer of your 
head ; but if you were an emperor, I should not 
be so bold with you as to claim your promise ; 
you might find twenty better employments for't. 
Only with your gracious leave, I think I should 
be a little exalted with remembering that you 
had been once my friend ; 'twould more endanger 
my growing proud than being Sir Justinian's 
mistress, and yet he thought me pretty well 
inclin'd to't then. Lord ! what would I give 
that I had a Latin letter of his for you, that 
he writ to a great friend at Oxford, where he 
gives him a long and learned character of me ; 
'twould serve you to laugh at this seven years. 
If I remember what was told me on't, the 
worst of my faults was a height (he would not 
call it pride) that was, as he had heard, the 
humour of my family ; and the best of my com- 
mendations was, that I was capable of being 
company and conversation for him. But you 
do not tell me yet how you found him out. If 
I had gone about to conceal him, I had been 
sweetly serv'd. I shall take heed of you here- 
after ; because there is no very great likelihood 
of your being an emperor, or that, if you were, I 
should have your head. 



Early Letters. 51 

I have sent into Italy for seals; 'tis to be 
hoped by that time mine come over, they may 
be of fashion again, for 'tis an humour that your 
old acquaintance Mr. Smith and his lady have 
brought up ; they say she wears twenty strung 
upon a ribbon, like the nuts boys play withal, 
and I do not hear of anything else. Mr. Howard 
presented his mistress but a dozen such seals 
as are not to be valued as times now go. But 
a propos of Monsr. Smith, what a scape has he 
made of my Lady Barbury ; and who would 
e'er have dreamt he should have had my Lady 
Sunderland, though he be a very fine gentleman, 
and does more than deserve her. I think I shall 
never forgive her one thing she said of him, 
which was that she married him out of pity ; it 
was the pitifullest saying that ever I heard, and 
made him so contemptible that I should not have 
married him for that reason. This is a strange 
letter, sure, I have not time to read it over, but 
I have said anything that came into my head 
to put you out of your dumps. For God's sake 
be in better humour, and assure yourself I am as 
much as you can wish, 

Your faithful friend and servant. 

Letter 8. — The name of Algernon Sydney occurs 
more than once in these pages, and it is therefore only 
right to remind the reader of some of the leading facts 
in his life. He was born in 1622, and was the second 
son of Robert Earl of Leicester. He was educated in 



52 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

Paris and Italy, and first served in the army in Ireland. 
On his recall to England he espoused the popular 
cause, and fought on that side in the battle of Marston 
Moor. In 1651 he was elected a member of the 
Council of State, and in this situation he continued to 
act until 1653. It is unnecessary to mention his 
republican sympathies, and after the dismissal of the 
Parliament, his future actions concern us but little. 
He was arrested, tried, and executed in 1683, on 
the pretence of being concerned in the Rye House 
Plot. 

Arundel Howard was Henry, second son of the Earl 
of Arundel. His father died July 12, 1652. Dorothy 
would call him Arundel Howard, to distinguish him 
from the Earl of Berkshire's family. 

Sir, — You have made me so rich as I am able 
to help my neighbours. There is a little head 
cut in an onyx that I take to be a very good one, 
and the dolphin is (as you say) the better for 
being cut less ; the oddness of the figures makes 
the beauty of these things. If you saw one that 
my brother sent my Lady Diana last week, you 
would believe it were meant to fright people 
withal ; 'twas brought out of the Indies, and cut 
there for an idol's head : they took the devil him- 
self for their pattern that did it, for in my life I 
never saw so ugly a thing, and yet she is as fond 
on't as if it were as lovely as she herself is. Her 
eyes have not the flames they have had, nor is 
she like (I am afraid) to recover them here ; but 
were they irrecoverably lost, the beauty of her 



Early Letters. 53 

mind were enough to make her outshine every- 
body else, and she would still be courted by all 
that knew how to value her, like la belle aveugle that 
was Philip the 2nd of France his mistress. I am 
wholly ignorant of the story you mention, and am 
confident you are not well inform'd, for 'tis im- 
possible she should ever have done anything that 
were unhandsome. If I knew who the person 
were that is concern'd in't, she allows me so 
much freedom with her, that I could easily put 
her upon the discourse, and I do not think she 
would use much of disguise in it towards me. I 
should have guessed it Algernon Sydney, but 
that I cannot see in him that likelihood of a 
fortune which you seem to imply by saying 'tis 
not present. But if you should mean by that, 
that 'tis possible his wit and good parts may raise 
him to one, you must pardon if I am not of your 
opinion, for I do not think these are times for 
anybody to expect preferment in that deserves 
it, and in the best 'twas ever too uncertain for a 
wise body to trust to. But I am altogether of 
your mind, that my Lady Sunderland is not to be 
followed in her marrying fashion, and that Mr. 
Smith never appear'd less her servant than in 
desiring it ; to speak truth, it was convenient for 
neither of them, and in meaner people had been 
plain undoing one another, which I cannot under- 
stand to be kindness of either side. She has lost 
by it much of the repute she had gained by 



54 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

keeping herself a widow; it was then believed 
that wit and discretion were to be reconciled in 
her person that have so seldom been persuaded 
to meet in anybody else. But we are all 
mortal. 

I did not mean that Howard. 'Twas Arundel 
Howard. And the seals were some remainders 
that showed his father's love to antiquities, and 
therefore cost him dear enough if that would 
make them good. I am sorry I cannot follow 
your counsel in keeping fair with Fortune. I am 
not apt to suspect without just cause, but in 
earnest if I once find anybody faulty towards me, 
they lose me for ever ; I have forsworn being 
twice deceived by the same person. For God's 
sake do not say she has the spleen, I shall hate it 
worse than ever I did, nor that it is a disease of 
the wits, I shall think you abuse me, for then I 
am sure it would not be mine ; but were it certain 
that they went together always, I dare swear 
there is nobody so proud of their wit as to keep 
it upon such terms, but would be glad after they 
had endured it a while to let them both go as 
they came. I know nothing yet that is likely to 
alter my resolution of being in town on Saturday 
next ; but I am uncertain where I shall be, and 
therefore it will be best that I send you word 
when I am there. I should be glad to see you 
sooner, but that I do not know myself what com- 
pany I may have with me. I meant this letter 



Early Letters. 55 

longer when I begun it, but an extreme cold that 
I have taken lies so in my head, and makes it 
ache so violently, that I hardly see what I do. 
I'll e'en to bed as soon as I have told you that I 
am very much 

Your faithful friend 

and servant, 

D. Osborne. 



CHAPTER III. 

LIFE AT CHICKSANDS. 1 653. 

Letter 9. — Temple's sister here mentioned was his 
only sister Martha, who married Sir Thomas Giffard in 
1662, and was left a widow within two months of her 
marriage. She afterwards lived with Temple and his 
wife, was a great favourite with them, and their con- 
fidential friend. Lady Gififard has left a manuscript 
life of her brother from which the historian Courtenay 
deigned to extract some information, whereby we in 
turn have benefited. She outlived both her brother and 
his wife, to carry on a warlike encounter with her 
brother's amanuensis, Mr. Jonathan Swift, over Temple's 
literary remains. Esther Johnson, the unfortunate 
Stella, was Lady Giffard's maid. 

Cleopdtre and Le Grand Cyrus appear to have been 
Dorothy's literary companions at this date. She would 
read these in the original French ; and, as she tells us 
somewhere, had a scorn of translations. Both these 
romances were much admired, even by people of taste ; 
a thing difficult to understand, until we remember that 
Fielding, the first and greatest English novelist, was yet 
unborn, and novels, as we know them, non-existing. 
Both the romances found translators ; Cyrus > in one 
mysterious F. G. Gent — the translation was published 
in this year ; Cleopdtre, in Richard Loveday, an elegant 
letter-writer of this time. 



Life at Chicksands. 57 

Artamenes, or Le Grand Cyrus, the masterpiece of 
Mademoiselle Madeleine de Scuderi, is contained in no 
less than ten volumes, each of which in its turn has 
many books ; it is, in fact, more a collection of romances 
than a single romance. La Cleopdtre, a similar work, 
was originally published in twenty-three volumes of 
twelve parts, each part containing three or four books. 
It is but a collection of short stories. Its author 
rejoiced in the romantic title of Gauthier de Costes 
Chevalier Seigneur de la Calprenede ; he published 
Cleopdtre in 1642 ; he was the author of other romances, 
and some tragedies, noted only for their worthlessness. 
Even Richelieu, "quoiqu' admirateur indulgent de la 
mediocrite," could not stand Calprenede's tragedies. 
Reine Marguerite is probably the translation by Robert 
Codrington of the Memorials of Margaret of Valois, 
first wife of Henri IV. Bussy is a servant of the Duke 
of Avenson, Margaret's brother, with whom Margaret 
is very intimate. 

Of Lady Sunderland and Mr. Smith we have already 
sufficient knowledge. As for Sir Justinian, we are not 
to think he was already married ; the reference to his 
" new wife " is merely jocular, meaning his new wife 
when he shall get one ; for Sir Justinian is still wife- 
hunting, and comes back to renew his suit with Dorothy 
after this date. " Your fellow-servant," who is as often 
called Jane, appears to have been a friend and com- 
panion of Dorothy, in a somewhat lower rank of life. 
Mrs. Goldsmith, mentioned in a subsequent letter, — 
wife of Daniel Goldsmith, the rector of Campton, 
in which parish Chicksands was situated, — acted as 
chaperon or duenna companion to Dorothy, and Jane 
was, it seems to me, in a similar position ; only, being 
a younger woman than the rector's wife, she was more 



58 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

the companion and less the duenna. The servants and 
companions of ladies of that date were themselves 
gentlewomen of good breeding. Waller writes verses 
to Mrs. Braughton, servant to Sacharissa, commencing 
his lines, " Fair fellow-servant." Temple, had he written 
verse to his mistress, would probably have left us some 
" Lines to Jane." 

There is in Campton Church a tablet erected to 
Daniel Goldsmith, " Ecclesiae de Campton Pastor idem 
et Patronus;" also to Maria Goldsmith, "uxor dilec- 
tissima." This is erected by Maria's faithful sister, Jane 
Wright ; and if the astute reader shall think fit to agree 
with me in believing Temple's " fellow-servant " to be 
this Jane Wright on such slender evidence and slight 
thread of argument, he may well do so. Failing this, 
all search after Jane will, I fear, prove futile at this 
distant date. There are constant references to Jane in 
the letters. " Her old woman," in the same passage, is, 
of course, a jocular allusion to Dorothy herself; and 
" the old knight " is, I believe, Sir Robert Cook, a 
Bedfordshire gentleman, of whom nothing is known 
except that he was knighted at Ampthill, July 21st, 
1621. We hear some little more of him from Dorothy. 

Note well the signature of this and following letters ; 
it will help us to discover what passed between the 
friends in London. For my own part, I do not think 
Dorothy means that she has ceased to be faitJiful in 
that she has become "his affectionate friend and 
servant." 

Sir, — I was so kind as to write, to you by the 
coachman, and let me tell you I think 'twas the 
greatest testimony of my friendship that I could 
give you ; for, trust me, I was so tired with my 



Life at Chicksands. 59 

journey, so dowd with my cold, and so out of 
humour with our parting, that I should have done 
it with great unwillingness to anybody else. I 
lay abed all next day to recover myself, and 
rised a Thursday to receive your letter with the 
more ceremony. I found no fault with the ill 
writing, 'twas but too easy to read, methought, 
for I am sure I had done much sooner than I 
could have wished. But, in earnest, I was heartily 
troubled to find you in so much disorder. I would 
not have you so kind to me as to be cruel to 
yourself, in whom I am more concerned. No ; 
for God's sake, let us not make afflictions of such 
things as these ; I am afraid we shall meet with 
too many real ones. 

I am glad your journey holds, because I think 
'twill be a good diversion for you this summer ; 
but I admire your father's patience, that lets you 
rest with so much indifference when there is such 
a fortune offered. I'll swear I have great scruples 
of conscience myself on the point, and am much 
afraid I am not your friend if I am any part of the 
occasion that hinders you from accepting it. Yet 
I am sure my intentions towards you are very 
innocent and good, for you are one of those whose, 
interests I shall ever prefer much above my own ; 
and you are not to thank me for it, since, to speak 
truth, I secure my own by it ; for I defy my ill 
fortune to make me miserable, unless she does it 
in the persons of my friends. I wonder how your 



60 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

father came to know I was in town, unless my old 
friend, your cousin Hammond, should tell him. 
Pray, for my sake, be a very obedient son ; all 
your faults will be laid to my charge else, and, 
alas ! I have too many of my own. 

You say nothing how your sister does, which 
makes me hope there is no more of danger in her 
sickness. Pray, when it may be no trouble to 
her, tell her how much I am her servant ; and 
have a care of yourself this cold weather. I have 
read your Reine Marguerite, and will return it 
you when you please. If you will have my 
opinion of her, I think she had a good deal of 
wit, and a great deal of patience for a woman of 
so high a spirit. She speaks with too much in- 
difference of her husband's several amours, and 
commends Bussy as if she were a little concerned 
in him. I think her a better sister than a wife, 
and believe she might have made a better wife to 
a better husband. But the story of Mademoiselle 
de Tournon is so sad, that when I had read it 
I was able to go no further, and was fain to take 
up something else to divert myself withal. Have 
you read Cldopdtre ? I have six tomes on't here 
that I can lend you if you have not ; there are 
some stories in't you will like, I believe. But 
what an ass am I to think you can be idle enough 
at London to read romance ! No, I'll keep them 
till you come hither ; here they may be welcome to 
you for want of better company. Yet, that you 



Life at Chicksands. 61 

may not imagine we are quite out of the world 
here, and so be frighted from coming, I can assure 
you we are seldom without news, such as it is ; 
and at this present we do abound with stones 
of my Lady Sunderland and Mr. Smith ; with 
what reverence he approaches her, and how like 
a gracious princess she receives him, that they say 
'tis worth one's going twenty miles to see it. All 
our ladies are mightily pleased with the example, 
but I do not find that the men intend to follow it, 
and I'll undertake Sir Solomon Justinian wishes 
her in the Indias, for fear she should pervert his 
new wife. 

Your fellow-servant kisses your hands, and says, 
" If you mean to make love to her old woman this 
is the best time you can take, for she is dying ; 
this cold weather kills her, I think." It has undone 
me, I am sure, in killing an old knight that I have 
been waiting for this seven year, and now he dies 
and will leave me nothing, I believe, but leaves 
a rich widow for somebody. I think you had best 
come awooing to her ; I have a good interest in 
her, and it shall be all employed in your service 
if you think fit to make any addresses there. But 
to be sober now again, for God's sake send me 
word how your journey goes forward, when you 
think you shall begin it, and how long it may 
last, when I may expect your coming this way ; 
and of all things, remember to provide a safe 
address for your letters when you are abroad. 



62 Letters from Dorothy Osdome. 

This is a strange, confused one, I believe ; for 
I have been called away twenty times, since I sat 
down to write it, to my father, who is not well ; 
but you will pardon it — we are past ceremony, and 
excuse me if I say no more now but that I am 
tonjours le viesme, that is, ever 

Your affectionate 

friend and servant. 

Letter 10. — Dorothy is suffering from the spleen, a 
disease as common to-day as then, though we have lost 
the good name for it. This and the ague plague her 
continually. My Lord Lisle's proposed embassy to 
Sweden is, we see, still delayed ; ultimately Bulstrode 
Whitelocke is chosen ambassador. 

Dorothy's cousin Molle, here mentioned, seems to 
have been an old bachelor, who spent his time at one 
country house or another, visiting his country friends ; 
and playing the bore not a little, I should fear, with his 
gossip and imaginary ailments. 

Temple's father was at this time trying to arrange 
a match for him with a certain Mrs. Ch. as Dorothy 
calls her. Courtenay thinks she may be one Mistress 
Chambers, an heiress, who ultimately married Temple's 
brother John, and this conjecture is here followed. 

Sir, — Your last letter came like a pardon to 
one upon the block. I had given over the hopes 
on't, having received my letters by the other 
carrier, who was always [wont] to be last. The 
loss put me hugely out of order, and you would 
have both pitied and laughed at me . if you could 



Life at Chicksands, 63 

have seen how woodenly I entertained the widow, 
who came hither the day before, and surprised 
me very much. Not being able to say anything, 
I got her to cards, and there with a great deal 
of patience lost my money to her ; — or rather I 
gave it as my ransom. In the midst of our play, 
in comes my blessed boy with your letter, and, 
in earnest, I was not able to disguise the joy it 
gave me, though one was by that is not much 
your friend, and took notice of a blush that for 
my life I could not keep back. I put up the 
letter in my pocket, and made what haste I could 
to lose the money I had left, that I might take 
occasion to go fetch some more ; but I did not 
make such haste back again, I can assure you. I 
took time enough to have coined myself some 
money if I had had the art on't, and left my brother 
enough to make all his addresses to her if he 
were so disposed. I know not whether he was 
pleased or not, but I am sure I was. 

You make so reasonable demands that 'tis not 
fit you should be denied. You ask my thoughts 
but at one hour ; you will think me bountiful, I 
hope, when I shall tell you that I know no hour 
when you have them not. No, in earnest, my 
very dreams are yours, and I have got such a 
habit of thinking of you that any other thought 
intrudes and proves uneasy to me. I drink 
your health every morning in a drench that would 
poison a horse I believe, and 'tis the only way 



64 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

I have to persuade myself to take it. 'Tis the 
infusion of steel, and makes me so horridly sick, 
that every day at ten o'clock I am making my 
will and taking leave of all my friends. You will 
believe you are not forgot then. They tell me I 
must take this ugly drink a fortnight, and then 
begin another as bad ; but unless you say so too, 
I do not think I shall. 'Tis worse than dying by 
the half. 

I am glad your father is so kind to you. I 
shall not dispute it with him, because it is much 
more in his power than in mine, but I shall never 
yield that 'tis more in his desire, since he was 
much pleased with that which was a truth when 
you told it him, but would have been none if he 
had asked the question sooner. He thought 
there was no danger of you since you were 
more ignorant and less concerned in my being 
in town than he. If I were Mrs. Chambers, he 
would be more my friend ; but, however, I am 
much his servant as he is your father. I have 
sent you your book. And since you are at leisure 
to consider the moon, you may be enough to read 
Cle'opdtre, therefore I have sent you three tomes ; 
when you have done with these you shall have 
the rest, and I believe they will please. There is 
a story of Artemise that I will recommend to you ; 
her disposition I like extremely, it has a great 
deal of practical wit ; and if you meet with one 
Brittomart, pray send me word how you like him. 



Life at Chicksands. 65 

I am not displeased that my Lord [Lisle] makes 
no more haste, for though I am very willing you 
should go the journey for many reasons, yet two 
or three months hence, sure, will be soon enough 
to visit so cold a country, and I would not have 
you endure two winters in one year. Besides, I 
look for my eldest brother and cousin Molle here 
shortly, and I should be glad to have nobody to 
entertain but you, whilst you are here. Lord ! 
that you had the invisible ring, or Fortunatus his 
wishing hat ; now, at this instant, you should be 
here. 

My brother has gone to wait upon the widow 
homewards, — she that was born to persecute you 
and I, I think. She has so tired me with being 
here but two days, that I do not think I shall 
accept of the offer she made me of living with her 
in case my father dies before I have disposed of 
myself. Yet we are very great friends, and for 
my comfort she says she will come again about 
the latter end of June and stay longer with me, 
My aunt is still in town, kept by her business, 
which I am afraid will not go well, they do so 
delay it ; and my precious uncle does so visit her, 
and is so kind, that without doubt some mischief 
will follow. Do you know his son, my cousin 
Harry ? Tis a handsome youth, and well-natured, 
but such a goose ; and she has bred him so 
strangely, that he needs all his ten thousand a 
year. I would fain have him marry my Lady 

E 



66 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

Diana, she was his mistress when he was a boy. 
He had more wit then than he has now, I think, 
and I have less wit than he, sure, for spending my 
paper upon him when I have so little. Here is 
hardly room for 

Your affectionate 

friend and servant. 

Letter II. — It is a curious thing to find the Lord 
General's son among our loyal Dorothy's servants ; and 
to find, moreover, that he will be as acceptable to 
Dorothy as any other, if she may not marry Temple. 
Henry Cromwell was Oliver Cromwell's second son. 
How Dorothy became acquainted with him it is impos- 
sible to say. Perhaps they met in France. He seems 
to have been entirely unlike his father. Good Mrs. 
Hutchinson calls him " a debauched ungodly Cavalier," 
with other similar expressions of Presbyterian abhor- 
rence ; from which we need not draw any unkinder con- 
clusion than that he was no solemn puritanical soldier, 
but a man of the world, brighter and more courteous 
than the frequenters of his father's Council, and there- 
fore more acceptable to Dorothy. He was born at 
Huntingdon in 1627, the year of Dorothy's birth. He 
was captain under Harrison in 1647 ; colonel in Ireland 
with his father in 1649; and married at Kensington 
Church, on May 10th, 1653, to Elizabeth, daughter of 
Sir Francis Russell of Chippenham, Cambridgeshire. 
He was made Lord-Deputy in Ireland in 1657, but he 
wearied of the work of transplanting the Irish and 
planting the new settlers, which, he writes, only brought 
him disquiet of body and mind. This led to his retire- 
ment from public life in 1658. Two years afterwards, at 



Life at Chicksands. 67 

the Restoration, he came to live at Spinney Abbey, 
near Isham, Cambridgeshire, and died on the 23rd of 
March 1673. These are shortly the facts which remain 
to us of the life of Henry Cromwell, Dorothy's favoured 
servant. 

Sir, — I am so far from thinking you ill-natured 
for wishing I might not outlive you, that I should 
not have thought you at all kind if you had done 
otherwise ; no, in earnest, I was never yet so in 
love with my life but that I could have parted 
with it upon a much less occasion than your death, 
and 'twill be no compliment to you to say it would 
be very uneasy to me then, since 'tis not very 
pleasant to me now. Yet you will say I take 
great pains to preserve it, as ill as I like it ; but 
no, I'll swear 'tis not that I intend in what I do ; 
all that I aim at is but to keep myself from prov- 
ing a beast. They do so fright me with strange 
stories of what the spleen will bring me to in 
time, that I am kept in awe with them like a 
child ; they tell me 'twill not leave me common 
sense, that I shall hardly be fit company for my 
own dogs, and that it will end either in a stupid- 
ness that will make me incapable of anything, or 
fill my head with such whims as will make me 
ridiculous. To prevent this, who would not take 
steel or anything, — though I am partly of your 
opinion that 'tis an ill kind of physic. Yet I am 
confident that I take it the safest way, for I do 
not take the powder, as many do, but only lay a 



68 Letters from Dorothy Osborne, 

piece of steel in white wine over night and drink 
the infusion next morning, which one would think 
were nothing, and yet 'tis not to be imagined how 
sick it makes me for an hour or two, and, which is 
the misery, all that time one must be using some 
kind of exercise. Your fellow - servant has a 
blessed time on't that ever you saw. I make her 
play at shuttlecock with me, and she is the veriest 
bungler at it ever you saw. Then am I ready to 
beat her with the battledore, and grow so peevish 
as I grow sick, that I'll undertake she wishes there 
were no steel in England. But then to recom- 
pense the morning, I am in good humour all the 
day after for joy that I am well again. I am told 
'twill do me good, and am content to believe it; if 
it does not, I am but where I was. 

I do not use to forget my old acquaintances. 
Almanzor is as fresh in my memory as if I had 
visited his tomb but yesterday, though it be at 
least seven year agone since. You will believe I 
had not been used to great afflictions when I made 
his story such a one to me, as I cried an hour 
together for him, and was so angry with Alcidiana 
that for my life I could never love her after it. 
You do not tell me whether you received the 
books I sent you, but I will hope you did, because 
you say nothing to the contrary. They are my 
dear Lady Diana's, and therefore I am much 
concerned that they should be safe. And now I 
speak of her, she is acquainted with your aunt, my 



Life at Chicksands. 69 

Lady B., and says all that you say of her. If 
her niece has so much wit, will you not be 
persuaded to like her ; or say she has not quite 
so much, may not her fortune make it up ? In 
earnest, I know not what to say, but if your 
father does not use all his kindness and all his 
power to make you consider your own advantage, 
he is not like other fathers. Can you imagine 
that he that demands ,£5000 besides the rever- 
sion of an estate will like bare ^4000 ? Such 
miracles are seldom seen, and you must prepare 
to suffer a strange persecution unless you grow 
conformable ; therefore consider what you do, 'tis 
the part of a friend to advise you. I could say a 
great deal to this purpose, and tell you that 'tis 
not discreet to refuse a good offer, nor safe to 
trust wholly to your own judgment in your dis- 
posal. I was never better provided in my life for 
a grave admonishing discourse. Would you had 
heard how I have been catechized for you, and 
seen how soberly I sit and answer to interroga- 
tories. Would you think that upon examination 
it is found that you are not an indifferent person 
to me ? But the mischief is, that what my inten- 
tions or resolutions are, is not to be discovered, 
though much pains has been taken to collect all 
scattering circumstances ; and all the probable 
conjectures that can be raised from thence has 
been urged, to see if anything would be confessed. 
And all this done with so much ceremony and 



70 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

compliment, so many pardons asked for under- 
taking to counsel or inquire, and so great kind- 
ness and passion for all my interests professed, 
that I cannot but take it well, though I am very 
weary on't. You are spoken of with the reverence 
due to a person that I seem to like, and for as 
much as they know of you, you do deserve a very 
good esteem; but your fortune and mine can 
never agree, and, in plain terms, we forfeit our 
discretions and run wilfully upon our own ruins if 
there be such a thought. To all this I make no 
reply, but that if they will needs have it that I 
am not without kindness for you, they must con- 
clude withal that 'tis no part of my intention to 
ruin you, and so the conference breaks up for that 
time. All this is [from] my friend, that is not 
yours ; and the gentleman that came up-stairs in 
a basket, I could tell him that he spends his 
breath to very little purpose, and has but his 
labour for his pains. Without his precepts my 
own judgment would preserve me from doing 
anything that might be prejudicial to you or 
unjustifiable to the world ; but if these be secured, 
nothing can alter the resolution I have taken of 
settling my whole stock of happiness upon the 
affection of a person that is dear to me, whose 
kindness I shall infinitely prefer before any other 
consideration whatsoever, and I shall not blush to 
tell you that you have made the whole world 
besides so indifferent to me that, if I cannot be 



Life at Chicksands. yi 

yours, they may dispose of me how they please. 
Henry Cromwell will be as acceptable to me as 
any one else. If I may undertake to counsel, I 
think you shall do well to comply with your father 
as far as possible, and not to discover any aver- 
sion to what he desires further than you can give 
reason for. What his disposition may be I know 
not ; but 'tis that of many parents to judge their 
children's dislikes to be an humour of approving 
nothing that is chosen for them, which many 
times makes them take up another of denying 
their children all they choose for themselves. I 
find I am in the humour of talking wisely if my 
paper would give me leave. 'Tis great pity here 
is room for no more but — 

Your faithful friend and servant. 



Letter 12. 

Sir, — There shall be two posts this week, for 
my brother sends his groom up, and I am re- 
solved to make some advantage of it. Pray, 
what the paper denied me in your last, let me 
receive by him. Your fellow-servant is a sweet 
jewel to tell tales of me. The truth is, I cannot 
deny but that I have been very careless of 
myself, but, alas ! who would have been other ? 
I never thought my life worth my care whilst 
nobody was concerned in't but myself; now I 
shall look upon't as something that you would 



72 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

not lose, and therefore shall endeavour to keep 
it for you. But then you must return my kind- 
ness with the same care of a life that's much 
dearer to me. I shall not be so unreasonable as 
to desire that, for my satisfaction, you should 
deny yourself a recreation that is pleasing to you, 
and very innocent, sure, when 'tis not used in 
excess, but I cannot consent you should disorder 
yourself with it, and Jane was certainly in the 
right when she told you I would have chid if I 
had seen you so endanger a health that I am so 
much concerned in. But for what she tell you 
of my melancholy you must not believe ; she 
thinks nobody in good humour unless they laugh 
perpetually, as Nan and she does, which I was 
never given to much, and now I have been so 
long accustomed to my own natural dull humour 
that nothing can alter it. 'Tis not that I am sad 
(for as long as you and the rest of my friends are 
well), I thank God I have no occasion to be so, 
but I never appear to be very merry, and if I had 
all that I could wish for in the world, I do not 
think it would make any visible change in my 
humour. And yet with all my gravity I could 
not but laugh at your encounter in the Park, 
though I was not pleased that you should leave 
a fair lady and go lie upon the cold ground. 
That is full as bad as overheating yourself at 
tennis, and therefore remember 'tis one of the 
things you are forbidden. You have reason to 



Life at Chicksands. J$ 

think your father kind, and I have reason to 
think him very civil ; all his scruples are very 
just ones, but such as time and a little good 
fortune (if we were either of us lucky to it) might 
satisfy. He may be confident I can never think 
of disposing myself without my father's consent ; 
and though he has left it more in my power than 
almost anybody leaves a daughter, yet certainly 
I were the worst natured person in the world if 
his kindness were not a greater tie upon me than 
any advantage he could have reserved. Besides 
that, 'tis my duty, from which nothing can ever 
tempt me, nor could you like it in me if I should 
do otherwise, 'twould make me unworthy of 
your esteem ; but if ever that may be obtained, or 
I left free, and you in the same condition, all the 
advantages of fortune or person imaginable met 
too-ether in one man should not be preferred 
before you. I think I cannot leave you better 
than with this assurance. Tis very late, and 
having been abroad all this day, I knew not till 
e'en now of this messenger. Good-night to you. 
There need be no excuse for the conclusion of 
your letter. Nothing can please me better. 
Once more good-night. I am half in a dream 
already. 

Your 



Letter 13. — There is some allusion here to an in- 
constant lover of my Lady Diana Rich, who seems to 



74 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

have deserted his mistress on account of the sore eyes 
with which, Dorothy told us in a former letter, her 
friend was afflicted. 

I cannot find any account of the great shop above 
the Exchange, " The Flower Pott." There were two or 
three " Flower Pots " in London at this time, one in 
Leadenhall Street and another in St. James' Market. 
An interesting account of the old sign is given in a 
work on London tradesmen's tokens, in which it is 
said to be " derived from the earlier representations of 
the salutations of the angel Gabriel to the Virgin Mary, 
in which either lilies were placed in his hand, or they 
were set as an accessory in a vase. As Popery declined, 
the angel disappeared, and the lily-pot became a vase 
of flowers ; subsequently the Virgin was omitted, and 
there remained only the vase of flowers. Since, to make 
things more unmistakeable, two debonair gentlemen, 
with hat in hand, have superseded the floral elegancies 
of the olden time, and the poetry of the art seems lost." 

Sir, — I am glad you 'scaped a beating, but, in 
earnest, would it had lighted on my brother's 
groom. I think I should have beaten him myself 
if I had been able. I have expected your letter 
all this day with the greatest impatience that was 
possible, and at last resolved to go out and meet 
the fellow ; and when I came down to the stables, 
I found him come, had set up his horse, and was 
sweeping the stable in great order. I could not 
imagine him so very a beast as to think his horses 
were to be serv'd before me, and therefore was 
presently struck with an apprehension he had no 



Life at Chicksands. 75 

letter for me : it went cold to my heart as ice, and 
hardly left me courage enough to ask him the 
question ; but when he had drawled it out that he 
thought there was a letter for me in his bag, I 
quickly made him leave his broom. 'Twas well 
'tis a dull fellow, he could not [but] have discern'd 
else that I was strangely overjoyed with it, and 
earnest to have it ; for though the poor fellow 
made what haste he could to untie his bag, I did 
nothing but chide him for being so slow. Last 
I had it, and, in earnest, I know not whether an 
entire diamond of the bigness on't would have 
pleased me half so well ; if it would, it must be 
only out of this consideration, that such a jewel 
would make me rich enough to dispute you with 
Mrs. Chambers, and perhaps make your father 
like me as well. I like him, I'll swear, and 
extremely too, for being so calm in a business 
where his desires were so much crossed. Either 
he has a great power over himself, or you have 
a great interest in him, or both. If you are 
pleased it should end thus, I cannot dislike it; but 
if it would have been happy for you, I should 
think myself strangely unfortunate in being the 
cause that it went not further. I cannot say that 
I prefer your interest before my own, because all 
yours are so much mine that 'tis impossible for 
me to be happy if you are not so ; but if they 
could be divided I am certain I should. And 
though you reproached me with unkindness for 



J 6 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

advising you not to refuse a good offer, yet I 
shall not be discouraged from doing it again when 
there is occasion, for I am resolved to be your 
friend whether you will or no. And, for example, 
though I know you do not need my counsel, yet 
I cannot but tell you that I think 'twere very well 
that you took some care to make my Lady B. 
your friend, and oblige her by your civilities to 
believe that you were sensible of the favour was 
offered you, though you had not the grace to 
make good use on't. In very good earnest now, 
she is a woman (by all that I have heard of her) 
that one would not lose ; besides that, 'twill be- 
come you to make some satisfaction for downright 
refusing a young lady — 'twas unmercifully done. 

Would to God you would leave that trick of 
making excuses ! Can you think it necessary to 
me, or believe that your letters can be so long as 
to make them unpleasing to me ? Are mine so to 
you ? If they are not, yours never will be so to me. 
You see I say anything to you, out of a belief that, 
though my letters were more impertinent than they 
are, you would not be without them nor wish them 
shorter. Why should you be less kind ? If your 
fellow-servant has been with you, she has told you 
I part with her but for her advantage. That I 
shall always be willing to do ; but whensoever she 
shall think fit to serve again, and is not provided 
of a better mistress, she knows where to find me. 

I have sent you the rest of Ctiopatre, pray keep 



Life at Chicksands. yj 

them all in your hands, and the next week I will 
send you a letter and directions where you shall 
deliver that and the books for my lady. Is it 
possible that she can be indifferent to anybody ? 
Take heed of telling me such stories ; if all those 
excellences she is rich in cannot keep warm a 
passion without the sunshine of her eyes, what 
are poor people to expect ; and were it not a 
strange vanity in me to believe yours can be long- 
lived ? It would be very pardonable in you to 
change, but, sure, in him 'tis a mark of so great 
inconstancy as shows him of an humour that 
nothing can fix. When you go into the Ex- 
change, pray call at the great shop above, " The 
Flower Pott." I spoke to Heams, the man of 
the shop, when I was in town, for a quart of 
oranee-flower water ; he had none that was sfood 
then, but promised to get me some. Pray put 
him in mind of it, and let him show it you before 
he sends it me, for I will not altogether trust to 
his honesty ; you see I make no scruple of giving 
you little idle commissions, 'tis a freedom you 
allow me, and that I should be glad you would 
take. The Frenchman that set my seals lives 
between Salisbury House and the Exchange, at 
a house that was not finished when I was there, 
and the master of the shop, his name is Walker, 
he made me pay 50s. for three, but 'twas too 
dear. You will meet with a story in these parts 
of CUopdtre that pleased me more than any that 



78 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

ever I read in my life ; 'tis of one Delie, pray give 
me your opinion of her and her prince. This 
letter is writ in great haste, as you may see ; 'tis 
my brother's sick day, and I'm not willing to 
leave him long alone. I forgot to tell you in my 
last that he was come hither to try if he can lose 
an ague here that he got in Gloucestershire. He 
asked me for you very kindly, and if he knew I 
writ to you I should have something to say from 
him besides what I should say for myself if I had 
room. 

Yrs. 

Letter 14. — This letter contains the most interesting 
political reference of the whole series. Either Temple 
has written Dorothy an account of Cromwell's dissolv- 
ing the Long Parliament, or perhaps some news-letter 
has found its way to Chicksands with the astounding 
news. All England is filled with intense excitement 
over Cromwell's coup d'etat ; and it cannot be unin- 
teresting to quote a short contemporary account of 
the business. Algernon Sydney's father, the Earl of 
Leicester, whose journal has already been quoted, under 
date Wednesday, April 20th, 1653, writes as follows : — 
" My Lord General came into the House clad in plain 
black clothes with grey worsted stockings, and sat down, 
as he used to do, in an ordinary place." Then he began 
to speak, and presently " he put on his hat, went out of 
his place, and walked up and down the stage or floor in 
the midst of the House, with his hat on his head, and 
chid them soundly." After this had gone on for some 
time, Colonel Harrison was called in to remove the 



Life at Chicksands. 79 

Speaker, which he did ; " and it happened that Alger- 
non Sydney sat next to the Speaker on the right hand. 
The General said to Harrison, ' Put him out ! ' 

" Harrison spake to Sydney to go out, but he said he 
would not go out and waited still. 

" The General said again, ' Put him out ! ' Then 
Harrison and Wortley [Worsley] put their hands upon 
Sydney's shoulders as if they would force him to go out. 
Then he rose and went towards the door." 

Such is the story which reaches Dorothy, and startles 
all England at this date. 



Sir, — That you may be sure it was a dream 
that I writ that part of my letter in, I do not now 
remember what it was I writ, but seems it was 
very kind, and possibly you owe the discovery 
on't to my being asleep. But I do not repent it, 
for I should not love you if I did not think you 
discreet enough to be trusted with the knowledge 
of all my kindness. Therefore 'tis not that I 
desire to hide it from you, but that I do not love 
to tell it ; and perhaps if you could read my heart, 
I should make less scruple of your seeing on't 
there than in my letters. 

I can easily guess who the pretty young lady is, 
for there are but two in England of that fortune, 
and they are sisters, but I am to seek who the 
gallant should be. If it be no secret, you may tell 
me. However, I shall wish him all good success 
if he be your friend, as I suppose he is by his con- 
fidence in you. If it be neither of the Spencers, 



80 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

I wish it were ; I have not seen two young men 
that looked as if they deserved better fortunes so 
much as those brothers. 

But, bless me, what will become of us all now ? 
Is not this a strange turn ? What does my Lord 
Lisle ? Sure this will at least defer your journey ? 
Tell me what I must think on't ; whether it be 
better or worse, or whether you are at all con- 
cern'd in't ? For if you are not I am not, only if 
I had been so wise as to have taken hold of the 
offer was made me by Henry Cromwell, I might 
have been in a fair way of preferment, for, sure, 
they will be greater now than ever. Is it true that 
Algernon Sydney was so unwilling to leave the 
House, that the General was fain to take the 
pains to turn him out himself? Well, 'tis a 
pleasant world this. If Mr. Pirn were alive again, 
I wonder what he would think of these proceed- 
ings, and whether this would appear so great a 
breach of the Privilege of Parliament as the 
demanding the 5 members ? But I shall talk 
treason by and by if I do not look to myself. 
'Tis safer talking of the orange-flower water you 
sent me. The carrier has given me a great 
charge to tell you that it came safe, and that 
I must do him right. As you say, 'tis not the 
best I have seen, nor the worst. 

I shall expect your Diary next week, though 
this will be but a short letter : you may allow me 
to make excuses too sometimes ; but, seriously, 



Life at Chicksands. 81 

my father is now so continuously ill, that I have 
hardly time for anything. 'Tis but an ague that 
he has, but yet I am much afraid that is more 
than his age and weakness will be able to bear ; 
he keeps his bed, and never rises but to have it 
made, and most times faints with that. You 
ought in charity to write as much as you can, 
for, in earnest, my life here since my father's 
sickness is so sad that, to another humour than 
mine, it would be unsupportable ; but I have been 
so used to misfortunes, that I cannot be much 
surprised with them, though perhaps I am as 
sensible of them as another. I'll leave you, for 
I find these thoughts begin to put me in ill 
humour; farewell, may you be ever happy. If 
I am so at all, it is in being 

Your 



Letter 15. — What Temple had written about Mr. 
Arbry's prophecy and " the falling down of the form," 
we cannot know. Mr. Arbry was probably William 
Erbury, vicar of St. Mary's, Cardiff, a noted schismatic. 
He is said to have been a " holy, harmless man," but 
incurred both the hate and ridicule of his opponents. 
Many of his tracts are still extant, and they contain 
extravagant prophecies couched in the peculiar phrase- 
ology of the day. 

The celebrated Sir Samuel Luke was a near neighbour 
of the Osbornes, and Mr. Luke was one of his numerous 
family. Sir Samuel was Lord of the Manor of Hawnes, 
and in the Hawnes parish register there are notices of 



82 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

the christenings of his sons and daughters. Sir Samuel 
was not only a colonel in the Parliament Army, but 
Scout-Master-General in the counties of Bedford and 
Surrey. Samuel Butler, the author of Hudibras, lived 
with Sir Samuel Luke as his secretary, at some date 
prior to the Restoration ; and Dr. Grey, his learned 
editor, believes that he wrote Hudibras about that time, 
" because he had then the opportunity to converse 
with those living characters of rebellion, nonsense, and 
hypocrisy which he so lively and pathetically exposes 
throughout the whole work." Sir Samuel is said himself 
to be the original " Hudibras ; " and if Dr. Grey's con- 
jecture on this matter is a right one, we have already 
in our minds a very complete portrait of Dorothy's 
neighbour. 

The old ballad that Dorothy encloses to her lover 
has not been preserved with her letter. If it is older 
than the ballad of "The Lord of Lome," it must have 
been composed before Henry VIII.'s reign ; for 
Edward Guilpin, in his SkialetJiia [1598], speaks of 

Th' olde ballad of the Lord of Lome, 

Whose last line in King Harrie's day was borne. 

" The Lord of Learne " (this was the old spelling) may 
be found in Bishop Percy's well-known collection of 
Ballads and Romances. 



Sir, — You must pardon me, I could not burn 
your other letter for my life ; I was so pleased to 
see I had so much to read, and so sorry I had 
done so soon, that I resolved to begin them again, 
and had like to have lost my dinner by it. I 
know not what humour you were in when you 



Life at Chicksands. 83 

writ it ; but Mr. Arbry's prophecy and the falling 
down of the form did a little discompose my 
gravity. But I quickly recovered myself with 
thinking that you deserved to be chid for going 
where you knew you must of necessity lose your 
time. In earnest, I had a little scruple when I 
went with you thither, and but that I was assured 
it was too late to go any whither else, and be- 
lieved it better to hear an ill sermon than none, I 
think I should have missed his Belles remarqties. 
You had repented you, I hope, of that and all 
other your faults before you thought of dying. 

What a satisfaction you had found out to make 
me for the injuries you say you have done me ! 
And yet I cannot tell neither (though 'tis not the 
remedy I should choose) whether that were not 
a certain one for all my misfortunes ; for, sure, I 
should have nothing then to persuade me to stay 
longer where they grow, and I should quickly 
take a resolution of leaving them and the world 
at once. I agree with you, too, that I do not see 
any great likelihood of the change of our fortunes, 
and that we have much more to wish than to 
hope for; but 'tis so common a calamity that 
I dare not murmur at it ; better people have 
endured it, and I can give no reason why (almost) 
all are denied the satisfaction of disposing them- 
selves to their own desires, but that it is a 
happiness too great for this world, and might 
endanger one's forgetting the next ; whereas if we 



84 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

are crossed in that which only can make the 
world pleasing to us, we are quickly tired with 
the length of our journey and the disquiet of our 
inns, and long to be at home. One would think 
it were I who had heard the three sermons and 
were trying to make a fourth ; these are truths 
that might become a pulpit better than Mr. 
Arbry's predictions. But lest you should think 
I have as many worms in my head as he, I'll give 
over in time, and tell you how far Mr. Luke and 
I are acquainted. He lives within three or four 
miles of me, and one day that I had been to visit 
a lady that is nearer him than me, as I came back 
I met a coach with some company in't that I 
knew, and thought myself obliged to salute. We 
all lighted and met, and I found more than I looked 
for by two damsels and their squires. I was after- 
wards told they were of the Lukes, and possibly 
this man might be there, or else I never saw him; 
for since these times we have had no commerce 
with that family, but have kept at great distance, 
as having on several occasions been disobliged 
by them. But of late, I know not how, Sir Sam 
has grown so kind as to send to me for some 
things he desired out of this garden, and withal 
made the offer of what was in his, which I had 
reason to take for a high favour, for he is a nice 
florist; and since this we are insensibly come to as 
good degrees of civility for one another as can be 
expected from people that never meet. 



Life at Chicksands. 85 

Who those demoiselles should be that were at 
Heamses I cannot imagine, and I know so few 
that are concerned in me or my name that I 
admire you should meet with so many that seem 
to be acquainted with it. Sure, if you had liked 
them you would not have been so sullen, and a 
less occasion would have served to make you 
entertain their discourse if they had been hand- 
some. And yet I know no reason I have to 
believe that beauty is any argument to make you 
like people ; unless I had more on't myself. But 
be it what it will that displeased you, I am glad 
they did not fright you away before you had the 
orange-flower water, for it is very good, and I am 
so sweet with it a days that I despise roses. 
When I have given you humble thanks for it, I 
mean to look over your other letter and take the 
heads, and to treat of them in order as my time 
and your patience shall give me leave. 

And first for my Sheriff, let me desire you to 
believe he has more courage than to die upon a 
denial. No (thanks be to God !), none of my 
servants are given to that ; I hear of many every 
day that do marry, but of none that do worse. 
My brother sent me word this week that my 
fighting servant is married too, and with the news 
this ballad, which was to be sung in the grave 
that you dreamt of, I think ; but because you tell 
me I shall not want company then, you may dis- 
pose of this piece of poetry as you please when 



86 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

you have sufficiently admired with me where 
he found it out, for 'tis much older than that of 
my " Lord of Lome." You are altogether in the 
right that my brother will never be at quiet till he 
sees me disposed of, but he does not mean to lose 
me by it ; he knows that if I were married at this 
present, I should not be persuaded to leave my 
father as lonsf as he lives ; and when this house 
breaks up, he is resolved to follow me if he can, 
which he thinks he might better do to a house 
where I had some power than where I am but 
upon courtesy myself. Besides that, he thinks it 
would be to my advantage to be well bestowed, 
and by that he understands richly. He is much of 
your sister's humour, and many times wishes me a 
husband that loved me as well as he does (though 
he seems to doubt the possibility on't), but never 
desires that I should love that husband with any 
passion, and plainly tells me so. He says it 
would not be so well for him, nor perhaps for me, 
that I should; for he is of opinion that all passions 
have more of trouble than satisfaction in them, 
and therefore they are happiest that have least of 
them. You think him kind from a letter that 
you met with of his ; sure, there was very little 
of anything in that, or else I should not have 
employed it to wrap a book up. But, seriously, 
I many times receive letters from him, that were 
they seen without an address to me or his name, 
nobody would believe they were from a brother ; 



Life at Chicksands. 87 

and I cannot but tell him sometimes that, sure, 
he mistakes and sends me letters that were meant 
to his mistress, till he swears to me that he has 
none. 

Next week my persecution begins again ; he 
comes down, and my cousin Molle is alreadv 
cured of his imaginary dropsy, and means to meet 
here. I shall be baited most sweetly, but sure 
they will not easily make me consent to make my 
life unhappy to satisfy their importunity. I was 
born to be very happy or very miserable, I know 
not which, but I am very certain that you will 
never read half this letter 'tis so scribbled ; but 'tis 
no matter, 'tis not much worth it. 

Your most faithful friend and servant. 

Letter 16. — The trial of Lord Chandos for killing Mr. 
Compton in a duel was, just at this moment, exciting 
the fickle attention of the town, which had probably said 
its say on the subject of Cromwell's coup detat, and 
was only too ready for another subject of conversation. 
The trial is not reported among the State Trials, but 
our observant friend the Earl of Leicester has again 
taken note of the matter in his journal, and can give us 
at least his own ideas of the trial and its political and 
social importance. Under date May 1653, he writes : — 
" Towards the end of Easter Term, the Lord Chandos, 
for killing in duel Mr. Compton the year before," that is 
to say, in March ; the new year begins on March 25th, 
"and the Lord Arundel of Wardour, one of his seconds, 
were brought to their trial for their lives at the Upper 
Bench in Westminster Hall, when it was found man- 



88 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

slaughter only, as by a jury at Kingston-upon-Thames 
it had been found formerly. The Lords might have 
had the privilege of peerage (Justice Rolles being 
Lord Chief Justice), but they declined it by the advice 
of Mr. Maynard and the rest of their ccunsel, least by 
that means the matter might have been brought about 
again, therefore they went upon the former verdict of 
manslaughter, and so were acquitted ; yet to be burned 
in the hand, which was done to them both a day or two 
after, but very favourably." These were the first peers 
that had been burned in the hand, and the democratic 
Earl of Leicester expresses at the event some satisfaction, 
and derives from the whole circumstances of the trial 
comfortable assurance of the power and stability of the 
Government. The Earl, however, misleads us in one 
particular. Lord Arundel was Henry Compton's second. 
He had married Cecily Compton, and naturally enough 
acted as his brother-in-law's second. It is also interest- 
ing to remember that Lord Chandos was known to the 
world as something other than a duellist. He was an 
eminent loyalist, among the first of those nobles who 
left Westminster, and at Newbury fight had his three 
horses killed under him. Lady Carey was Mary, 
natural daughter of Lord Scrope, who married Henry 
Carey, commonly called Lord Leppington. Lady 
Leppington (or Carey) lost her husband in 1649, and 
her son died May 24, 1653. This helps us to date 
the letter. Of her " kindness to Compton," of which 
Dorothy writes in her next letter, nothing is known, 
but she married Charles Paulet, Lord St. John, after- 
wards the Duke of Bolton, early in 1654. 

The jealous Sir T here mentioned may be Sir 

Thomas Osborne, who, we may suppose, was not well 
pleased at the refusal of his offer. 



Life at Chicksands. 89 

Sir Peter Lely did paint a portrait of Lady Diana 
Rich some months after this date. It is somewhat 
curious that he should remain in England during the 
Civil Wars ; but his business was to paint all men's 
portraits. He had painted Charles I. ; now he was 
painting Cromwell. It was to him Cromwell is said to 
have shouted : " Paint the warts ! paint the warts ! " 
when the courtly Sir Peter would have made a 
presentable picture even of the Lord General himself. 
Cromwell was a sound critic in this, and had detected 
the main fault of Sir Peter's portraits, whose value to 
us is greatly lessened by the artist's constant habit of 
flattery. 

Sir, — If it were the carrier's fault that you 
stayed so long for your letters, you are revenged, 
for I have chid him most unreasonably. But I 
must confess 'twas not for that, for I did not 
know it then, but going to meet him (as I usually 
do), when he gave me your letter I found the 
upper seal broken open, and underneath where it 
uses to be only closed with a little wax, there was 
a seal, which though it were an anchor and a 
heart, methought it did not look like yours, but 
less, and much worse cut. This suspicion was so 
strong upon me, that I chid till the poor fellow 
was ready to cry, and swore to me that it had 
never been touched since he had it, and that he 
was careful of it, as he never put it with his other 
letters, but by itself, and that now it come 
amongst his money, which perhaps might break 
the seal ; and lest I should think it was his 



90 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

curiosity, he told me very ingenuously he could 
not read, and so we parted for the present. But 
since, he has been with a neighbour of mine 
whom he sometimes delivers my letters to, and 
beeeed her that she would &o to me and desire 
my worship to write to your worship to know how 
the letter was sealed, for it has so grieved him 
that he has neither eat nor slept (to do him any 
good) since he came home, and in grace of God 
this shall be a warning to him as long as he lives. 
He takes it so heavily that I think I must be 
friends with him again ; but pray hereafter seal 
your letters, so that the difficulty of opening them 
may dishearten anybody from attempting it. 

It was but my guess that the ladies at Heams' 
were unhandsome ; but since you tell me they 
were remarkably so, sure I know them by it ; 
they are two sisters, and might have been mine 
if the Fates had so pleased. They have a brother 
that is not like them, and is a baronet besides. 
'Tis strange that you tell me of my Lords 
Shandoys [Chandos] and Arundel ; but what 
becomes of young Compton's estate ? Sure my 
Lady Carey cannot neither in honour nor con- 
science keep it ; besides that, she needs it less 
now than ever, her son (being, as I hear) 
dead. 

Sir T., I suppose, avoids you as a friend of 
mine. My brother tells me they meet sometimes, 
and have the most ado to pull off their hats to 



Life at Chicksands. 91 

one another that can be, and never speak. If I 
were in town I'll undertake he would venture the 
being choked for want of air rather than stir out 
of doors for fear of meeting me. But did you 
not say in your last that you took something very 
ill from me ? If 'twas my humble thanks, well, 
you shall have no more of them then, nor no 
more servants. I think that they are not 
necessary among friends. 

I take it very kindly that your father asked 
for me, and that you were not pleased with the 
question he made of the continuance of my 
friendship. I can pardon it him, because he 
does not know me, but I should never forgive 
you if you could doubt it. Were my face in no 
more danger of changing than my mind, I should 
be worth the seeing at threescore ; and that which 
is but very ordinary now, would then be counted 
handsome for an old woman ; but, alas ! I am 
more likely to look old before my time with grief. 
Never anybody had such luck with servants ; what 
with marrying and what with dying, they all leave 
me. Just now I have news brought me of the 
death of an old rich knight that has promised 
me this seven years to marry me whensoever his 
wife died, and now he's dead before her, and has 
left her such a widow, it makes me mad to think 
on't, ^"1200 a year jointure and ^20,000 in money 
and personal estate, and all this I might have had 
if Mr. Death had been pleased to have taken her 



92 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

instead of him. Well, who can help these things ? 
But, since I cannot have him, would you had her ! 
What say you ? Shall I speak a good word for 
you ? She will marry for certain, and perhaps, 
though my brother may expect I should serve 
him in it, yet if you give me commission I'll say 
I was engaged beforehand for a friend, and leave 
him to shift for himself. You would be my 
neighbour if you had her, and I should see you 
often. Think on't, and let me know what you 
resolve ? My lady has writ me word that she 
intends very shortly to sit at Lely's for her picture 
for me ; I give you notice on't, that you may have 
the pleasure of seeing it sometimes whilst 'tis 
there. I imagine 'twill be so to you, for I am 
sure it would be a great one to me, and we do 
not use to differ in our inclinations, though I 
cannot agree with you that my brother's kindness 
to me has anything of trouble in't ; no, sure, I may 
be just to you and him both, and to be a kind 
sister will take nothing from my being a perfect 
friend. 

Letter 17. — Lady Newcastle was Margaret Duchess of 
Newcastle. " The thrice noble, chaste, and virtuous, but 
again somewhat fantastical and original-brained, generous 
Margaret Newcastle," as Elia describes her. She was the 
youngest daughter of Sir Charles Lucas, and was born at 
Colchester towards the end of the reign of James I. Her 
mother appears to have been remarkably careful of her 
education in all such lighter matters as dancing, music, 



Life at Chicksands. 93 

and the learning of the French tongue ; but she does 
not seem to have made any deep study of the classics. 
In 1643 she joined the Court at Oxford, and was made 
one of the Maids of Honour to Henrietta Maria, whom 
she afterwards attended in exile. At Paris she met the 
Marquis of Newcastle, who married her in that city in 
1645. From Paris they went to Rotterdam, she leaving 
the Queen to follow her husband's fortunes ; and after 
stopping at Rotterdam and Brabant for short periods, 
they settled at Antwerp. 

At the Restoration she returned to England with her 
husband, and employed her time in writing letters, plays, 
poems, philosophical discourses, and orations. There is 
a long catalogue of her works in Ballard's Memoirs, but 
all published at a date subsequent to 1653. However, 
from Anthony Wood and other sources one gathers 
somewhat different details of her life and writings ; and 
the book to which Dorothy refers here and in Letter 
21, is probably the Poems and Fancies, an edition of 
which was published, I believe, in this year [1653]. 
Many of her verses are more strangely incomprehen- 
sible than anything even in the poetry of to-day. Take, 
for instance, a poem of four lines, from the Poems and 
Fancies, entitled — 

THE JOINING OF SEVERAL FIGUR'D ATOMS MAKES 
OTHER FIGURES. 

Several figur'd Atoms well agreeing 
When joined, do give another figure being. 
For as those figures joined several ways 
The fabrick of each several creature raise. 

This seems to be a rhyming statement of the Atomic 
theory, but whether it is a poem or a fancy we should 
find it hard to decide, It is not, however, an unfair 



94 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

example of Lady Newcastle's fantastic style. Lady 
Newcastle died in 1673, and was buried in Westminster 
Abbey, — " A wise, witty, and learned Lady, which her 
many books do well testify." 

Sir, — I received your letter to-day, when I 
thought it almost impossible that I should be 
sensible of anything but my father's sickness and 
my own affliction in it. Indeed, he was then so 
dangerously ill that we could not reasonably hope 
he should outlive this day ; yet he is now, I thank 
God, much better, and I am come so much to 
myself with it, as to undertake a long letter to 
you whilst I watch by him. Towards the latter 
end it will be excellent stuff, I believe ; but, alas ! 
you may allow me to dream sometimes. I have 
had so little sleep since my father was sick that 
I am never thoroughly awake. Lord, how I have 
wished for you ! Here do I sit all night by a 
poor moped fellow that serves my father, and 
have much ado to keep him awake and myself 
too. If you heard the wise discourse that is 
between us, you would swear we wanted sleep ; 
but I shall leave him to-night to entertain him- 
self, and try if I can write as wisely as I talk. I 
am glad all is well again. In earnest, it would 
have lain upon my conscience if I had been the 
occasion of making your poor boy lose a service, 
that if he has the wit to know how to value it, 
he would never have forgiven me while he had 
lived. 



Life at Chicksands. 95 

But while I remember it, let me ask you if you 
did not send my letter and Cltopatre where I 
directed you for my lady ? I received one from 
her to-day full of the kindest reproaches, that she 
has not heard from me this three weeks. I have 
writ constantly to her, but I do not so much 
wonder that the rest are lost, as that she seems 
not to have received that which I sent to you nor 
the books. I do not understand it, but I know 
there is no fault of yours in't But, mark you ! if 
you think to 'scape with sending me such bits of 
letters, you are mistaken. You say you are often 
interrupted, and I believe it ; but you must use 
then to begin to write before you receive mine, 
and whensoever you have any spare time allow 
me some of it. Can you doubt that anythino- 
can make your letters cheap ? In earnest, 'twas 
unkindly said, and if I could be angry with you 
it should be for that. No, certainly they are, and 
ever will be, dear to me as that which I receive 
a huge contentment by. How shall I long when 
you are gone your journey to hear from you ! how 
shall I apprehend a thousand accidents that are 
not likely nor will never happen, I hope ! Oh, if 
you do not send me long letters, then you are the 
cruellest person that can be ! If you love me you 
will ; and if you do not, I shall never love myself. 
You need not fear such a command as you 
mention. Alas ! I am too much concerned that 
you should love me ever to forbid it you ; 'tis 



96 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

all that I propose of happiness to myself in the 
world. The burning of my paper has waked me ; 
all this while I was in a dream. But 'tis no 
matter, I am content you should know they are 
of you, and that when my thoughts are left most 
at liberty they are the kindest. I swear my eyes 
are so heavy that I hardly see what I write, nor 
do I think you will be able to read it when I 
have done ; the best on't is 'twill be no great loss 
to you if you do not, for, sure, the greatest part 
on't is not sense, and yet on my conscience I shall 
go on with it. 'Tis like people that talk in their 
sleep, nothing interrupts them but talking to them 
again, and that you are not like to do at this 
distance ; besides that, at this instant you are, I 
believe, more asleep than I, and do not so much 
as dream that I am writing to you. My fellow- 
watchers have been asleep too, till just now they 
begin to stretch and yawn ; they are going to try 
if eating and drinking can keep them awake, and 
I am kindly invited to be of their company ; and 
my father's man has got one of the maids to talk 
nonsense to to-night, and they have got between 
them a bottle of ale. I shall lose my share if 
I do not take them at their first offer. Your 
patience till I have drunk, and then I'll for you 
again. 

And now on the strength of this ale, I believe 
I shall be able to fill up this paper that's left with 
something or other ; and first let me ask you if 



Life at Chicksands. 97 

you have seen a book of poems newly come out, 
made by my Lady Newcastle ? For God's sake 
if you meet with it send it to me ; they say 'tis 
ten times more extravagant than her dress. Sure, 
the poor woman is a little distracted, she could 
never be so ridiculous else as to venture at writing 
books, and in verse too. If I should not sleep 
this fortnight I should not come to that. My 
eyes grow a little dim though, for all the ale, and 
I believe if I could see it this is most strangely 
scribbled. Sure, I shall not find fault with your 
writing in haste, for anything but the shortness of 
your letter ; and 'twould be very unjust in me 
to tie you to a ceremony that I do not observe 
myself. No, for God's sake let there be no 
such thing between us ; a real kindness is so far 
beyond all compliment, that it never appears more 
than when there is least of t'other mingled with 
it. If, then, you would have me believe yours to 
be perfect, confirm it to me by a kind freedom. 
Tell me if there be anything that I can serve you 
in, employ me as you would do that sister that 
you say you love so well. Chide me when I do 
anything that is not well, but then make haste to 
tell me that you have forgiven me, and that you 
are what I shall ever be, a faithful friend. 



Letter 18. — I cannot pass by this letter without say- 
ing that the first part of it is, to my thinking, the most 
dainty and pleasing piece of writing that Dorothy has 



98 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

left us. The account of her life, one day and every- 
day, is like a gust of fresh country air clearing away 
the mist of time and enabling one to see Dorothy at 
Chicksands quite clearly. It is fashionable to deny 
Macaulay everything but memory ; but he had the good 
taste and discernment to admire this letter, and quote 
from it in his Essay on Sir William Temple, — a quota- 
tion for which I shall always remain very grateful to 
him. 

Sir Thomas Peyton, " Brother Peyton," was born in 
1619, being, I believe, the second baronet of that name; 
his seat was at Knowlton, in the county of Kent. 
Early in the reign of Charles I. we find him as Member 
of Parliament for Sandwich, figuring in a Committee 
side by side with the two Sir Harry Vanes ; the Com- 
mittee having been sent into Kent to prevent the 
dispersal of rumours to the scandal of Parliament, — no 
light task, one would think. In 1643 he is in prison, 
charged among other things with being a malignant. 
An unjust charge, as he thinks ; for he writes to his 
brother, " If to wish on earth peace, goodwill towards 
men, be a malignant, none is greater than your affec- 
tionate brother, Thomas Peyton." But in spite of these 
peaceful thoughts in prison, in May 1648 he is heading 
a loyalist rising in Kent. The other counties not join- 
ing in at the right moment, in accordance with the 
general procedure at Royalist risings, it is defeated by 
Fairfax. Sir Thomas's house is ransacked, he himself is 
taken prisoner near Bury St. Edmunds, brought to the 
House of Commons, and committed to the Tower. A 
right worthy son-in-law of good Sir Peter. We are 
glad to find him at large again in 1653, his head safe on 
his shoulders, and do not grudge him his grant of duties 
on sea-coal, dated 1660; nor are we sorry that he should 



Life at Chicksands. 99 

once again grace the House of Commons with his pre- 
sence as one of the members for loyal Kent in the good 
days when the King enjoyed his own again. 



Sir, — I have been reckoning up how many 
faults you lay to my charge in your last letter, and 
I find I am severe, unjust, unmerciful, and unkind. 
Oh me, how should one do to mend all these ! 
'Tis work for an age, and 'tis to be feared I shall 
be so old before I am good, that 'twill not be 
considerable to anybody but myself whether I am 
so or not. I say nothing of the pretty humour 
you fancied me in, in your dream, because 'twas 
but a dream. Sure, if it had been anything else, 
I should have remembered that my Lord L. loves 
to have his chamber and his bed to himself. But 
seriously, now, I wonder at your patience. How 
could you hear me talk so senselessly, though 
'twere but in your sleep, and not be ready to beat 
me ? What nice mistaken points of honour I 
pretended to, and yet could allow him room in 
the same bed with me! Well, dreams are pleasant 
things to people whose humours are so ; but to 
have the spleen, and to dream upon't, is a punish- 
ment I would not wish my greatest enemy. I 
seldom dream, or never remember them, unless 
they have been so sad as to put me into such 
disorder as I can hardly recover when I am 
awake, and some of those I am confident I shall 
never forget. 



ioo Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

You ask me how I pass my time here. I can 

give you a perfect account not only of what I do 

for the present, but of what I am likely to do this 

seven years if I stay here so long. I rise in the 

morning reasonably early, and before I am ready 

I go round the house till I am weary of that, and 

then into the garden till it grows too hot for me. 

About ten o'clock I think of making me ready, 

and when that's done I go into my father's 

chamber, from whence to dinner, where my 

cousin Molle and I sit in great state in a room, 

and at a table that would hold a great many 

more. After dinner we sit and talk till Mr. B. 

comes in question, and then I am gone. The 

heat of the day is spent in reading or working, 

and about six or seven o'clock I walk out into 

a common that lies hard by the house, where a 

great many young wenches keep sheep and cows, 

and sit in the shade singing of ballads. I go to 

them and compare their voices and beauties to 

some ancient shepherdesses that I have read of, 

and find a vast difference there ; but, trust me, I 

think these are as innocent as those could be. I 

talk to them, and find they want nothing to make 

them the happiest people in the world but the 

knowledge that they are so. Most commonly 

when we are in the midst of our discourse, one 

looks about her, and spies her cows going into 

the corn, and then away they ail run as if they 

had wings at their heels. I, that am not so 



Life at Chicksands. 101 

nimble, stay behind ; and when I see them driv- 
ing home their cattle, I think 'tis time for me to 
return too. When I have supped, I go into the 
garden, and so to the side of a small river that 
runs by it, when I sit down and wish you were 
with me (you had best say this is not kind 
neither). In earnest, 'tis a pleasant place, and 
would be much more so to me if I had your 
company. I sit there sometimes till I am lost 
with thinking; and were it not for some cruel 
thoughts of the crossness of our fortunes that 
will not let me sleep there, I should forget that 
there were such a thing to be done as going to 
bed. 

Since I writ this my company is increased by 
two, my brother Harry and a fair niece, the 
eldest of my brother Peyton's children. She is 
so much a woman that I am almost ashamed to 
say I am her aunt ; and so pretty, that, if I had 
any design to gain of servants, I should not like 
her company ; but I have none, and therefore 
shall endeavour to keep her here as long as I can 
persuade her father to spare her, for she will 
easily consent to it, having so much of my humour 
(though it be the worst thing in her) as to like 
a melancholy place and little company. My 
brother John is not come down again, nor am 
I certain when he will be here. He went from 
London into Gloucestershire to my sister who 
was very ill, and his youngest girl, of which he 



102 Letters froin Dorothy Osdorne. 

was very fond, is since dead. But I believe by 
that time his wife has a little recovered her sick- 
ness and loss of her child, he will be coming this 
way. My father is reasonably well, but keeps his 
chamber still, and will hardly, I am afraid, ever be 
so perfectly recovered as to come abroad again. 

I am sorry for poor Walker, but you need not 
doubt of what he has of yours in his hands, for 
it seems he does not use to do his work himself. 
I speak seriously, he keeps a Frenchman that 
sets all his seals and rings. If what you say of 
my Lady Leppington be of your own knowledge, 
I shall believe you, but otherwise I can assure 
you I have heard from people that pretend to 
know her very well, that her kindness to Compton 
was very moderate, and that she never liked him 
so well as when he died and gave her his estate. 
But they might be deceived, and 'tis not so 
strange as that you should imagine a coldness 
and an indifference in my letters when I so little 
meant it ; but I am not displeased you should 
desire my kindness enough to apprehend the loss 
of it when it is safest. Only I would not have 
you apprehend it so far as to believe it possible, 
— that were an injury to all the assurances I have 
given you, and if you love me you cannot think 
me unworthy. I should think myself so, if I 
Jound you grew indifferent to me, that I have had 
so long and so particular a friendship for; but, 
sure, this is more than I need to say. You are 



Life at Chicksands. 103 

enough in my heart to know all my thoughts, 
and if so, you know better than I can tell you 
how much I am 

Yours. 

Letter 19. — Lady Ruthin is Susan, daughter and 
heiress of Charles Longueville Lord Grey de Ruthin. 
She married Sir Harry Yelverton, a match of which 
Dorothy thoroughly approved. We hear more of 
Dorothy's beautiful friend at the time when the treaty 
with Sir Harry Yelverton is going forward. Of Mr. 
Talbot I find nothing ; we must rest contented in 
knowing him to be a fellow-servant. 

R. Spencer is Robert Spencer, Earl of Sunderland, 
Lady Sunderland's brother-in-law. He was afterwards 
one of the inner council of four in Temple's Scheme 
of Government. " In him," says Macaulay, in a some- 
what highly-coloured character-sketch, " the political 
immorality of his age was personified in the most lively 
manner. Nature had given him a keen understanding, 
a restless and mischievous temper, a cold heart, and an 
abject spirit. His mind had undergone a training by 
which all his vices had been nursed up to the rankest 
maturity." 

Lady Lexington was Mary, daughter of Sir Anthony 
Leger ; she was the third wife of Robert Sutton, Earl of 
Lexington. I cannot find that her daughter married 
one of the Spencers. 

Sir, — If to know I wish you with me pleases 
you, 'tis a satisfaction you may always have, for I 
do it perpetually ; but were it really in my power 
to make you happy, I could not miss being so 



104 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

myself, for I know nothing else I want towards it. 
You are admitted to all my entertainments ; and 
'twould be a pleasing surprise to me to see you 
amongst my shepherdesses. I meet some there 
sometimes that look very like gentlemen (for 'tis 
a road), and when they are in good humour they 
give us a compliment as they go by ; but you 
would be so courteous as to stay, I hope, if we 
entreated you ; 'tis in your way to this place, 
and just before the house. 'Tis our Hyde Park, 
and every fine evening, anybody that wanted a 
mistress mieht be sure to find one there. I have 
wondered often to meet my fair Lady Ruthin 
there alone ; methinks it should be dangerous for 
an heir. I could find in my heart to steal her 
away myself, but it should be rather for her 
person than her fortune. My brother says not a 
word of you, nor your service, nor do I expect he 
should ; if I could forget you, he would not help 
my memory. You would laugh, sure, if I could 
tell you how many servants he has offered me 
since he came down ; but one above all the rest I 
think he is in love with himself, and may marry 
him too if he pleases, I shall not hinder him. 
'Tis one Talbot, the finest gentleman he has seen 
this seven year ; but the mischief on't is he has 
not above fifteen or sixteen hundred pound a year, 
though he swears he begins to think one might 
bate ^500 a year for such a husband. I tell him 
I am glad to hear it ; and if I was as much taken 




tWing -Waterlaw & dous. U- 



/fas^ydr6& $e**zre*^£- 




Life at Chicksands. 105 

(as he) with Mr. Talbot, I should not be less 
gallant; but I doubted the first extremely. I have 
spleen enough to carry me to Epsom this summer; 
but yet I think I shall not go. If I make one 
journey, I must make more, for then I have no 
excuse. Rather than be obliged to that, I'll make 
none. You have so often reproached me with 
the loss of your liberty, that to make you some 
amends I am contented to be your prisoner this 
summer; but you shall do one favour for me 
into the bargain. When your father goes into 
Ireland, lay your commands upon some of his 
servants to get you an Irish greyhound. I have 
one that was the General's ; but 'tis a bitch, and 
those are always much less than the dogs. I got 
it in the time of my favour there, and it was all 
they had. Henry Cromwell undertook to write 
to his brother Fleetwood for another for me ; but 
I have lost my hopes there. Whomsoever it is 
that you employ, he will need no other instruc- 
tions but to get the biggest he can meet with ; 
'tis all the beauty of those dogs, or of any kind, I 
think. A masty [mastif ] is handsomer to me than 
the most exact little dog that ever lady played 
withal. You will not offer to take it ill that I 
employ you in such a commission, since I have 
told you that the General's son did not refuse it ; 
but I shall take it ill if you do not take the same 
freedom with me whensoever I am capable of 
serving you. The town must needs be unplea- 



106 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

sant now, and, methinks, you might contrive some 
way of having your letters sent to you without 
giving yourself the trouble of coming to town 
for them when you have no other business ; 
you must pardon me if I think they cannot be 
worth it. 

I am told that R. Spencer is a servant to a 
lady of my acquaintance, a daughter of my Lady 
Lexington's. Is it true ? And if it be, what is 
become of the ,£2500 lady ? Would you think it, 
that I have an ambassador from the Emperor 
Justinian that comes to renew the treaty? In 
earnest, 'tis true, and I want your counsel ex- 
tremely, what to do in it. You told me once 
that of all my servants you liked him the best. 
If I could do so too, there were no dispute in't. 
Well, I'll think on't, and if it succeed I will be as 
good as my word ; you shall take your choice of 
my four daughters. Am not I beholding to him, 
think you ? He says that he has made addresses, 
'tis true, in several places since we parted, but 
could not fix anywhere ; and, in his opinion, he 
sees nobody that would make so fit a wife for 
him as I. He has often inquired after me to 
hear if I were marrying, and somebody told him 
I had an ague, and he presently fell sick of one 
too, so natural a sympathy there is between us ; 
and yet for all this, on my conscience, we shall 
never marry. He desires to know whether I am 
at liberty or not. What shall I tell him ? Or 



Life at Chicksands. 107 

shall I send him to you to know ? I think that 
will be best. I'll say that you are much my 
friend, and that I have resolved not to dispose 
of myself but with your consent and approba- 
tion, and therefore he must make all his court 
to you ; and when he can bring me a certificate 
under your hand, that you think him a fit husband 
for me, 'tis very likely I may have him. Till then 
I am his humble servant and your faithful friend. 

Letter 20. — In this letter the journey into Sweden is 
given up finally, and Temple is once more without 
employment or the hope of employment. This was 
probably brought about by the alteration of the 
Government plans ; and as Lord Lisle was not to go 
to Sweden, there was no chance of Temple's being 
attached to the Embassy. 

Sir, — I am sorry my last letter frighted you 
so ; 'twas no part of my intention it should ; but 
I am more sorry to see by your first chapter that 
your humour is not always so good as I could 
wish it. 'Twas the only thing I ever desired we 
might differ in, and therefore I think it is denied 
me. Whilst I read the description on't, I could 
not believe but that I had writ it myself, it was 
so much my own. I pity you in earnest much 
more than I do myself ; and yet I may deserve 
yours when I shall have told you, that besides all 
that you speak of, I have gotten an ague that 
with two fits has made me so very weak, that I 



io8 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

doubted extremely yesterday whether I should be 
able to sit up to-day to write to you. But you 
must not be troubled at this ; that's the way to 
kill me indeed. Besides, it is impossible I should 
keep it long, for here is my eldest brother, and 
my cousin Molle, and two or three more that 
have great understanding in agues, as people that 
have been long acquainted with them, and they 
do so tutor and govern me, that I am neither to 
eat, drink, nor sleep without their leave ; and, 
sure, my obedience deserves they should cure 
me, or else they are great tyrants to very little 
purpose. You cannot imagine how cruel they 
are to me, and yet will persuade me 'tis for my 
good. I know they mean it so, and therefore say 
nothing on't, I admit, and sigh to think those are 
not here that would be kinder to me. But you 
were cruel yourself when you seemed to appre- 
hend I might oblige you to make good your last 
offer. Alack ! if I could purchase the empire of 
the world at that rate, I should think it much too 
.dear ; and though, perhaps, I am too unhappy 
myself ever to make anybody else happy, yet, 
sure, I shall take heed that my misfortunes may 
not prove infectious to my friends. You ask 
counsel of a person that is very little able to give 
it. I cannot imagine whither you should go, 
since this journey is broke. You must e'en be 
content to stay at home, I think, and see what 
will become of us, though I expect nothing of 



Life at Chicksands. 109 

good ; and, sure, you never made a truer remark 
in your life than that all changes are for the 
worse. Will it not stay your father's journey 
too ? Methinks it should. For God's sake write 
me all that you hear or can think of, that I may 
have something to entertain myself withal. I 
have a scurvy head that will not let me write 
longer. 

I am your. 
[Directed] — 

For Mrs. Paynter, at her house 

in Bedford Street, next ye Goate, 
In Covent Garden. 

Letter 21. — Sir Thomas Osborne is Dorothy's " Cousin 
Osborne " here mentioned. He was, you remember, a 
suitor for Dorothy's hand, but has now married Lady 
Bridget Lindsay. 

The "squire that is as good as a knight," is, in all pro- 
bability, Richard Bennet. Thomas Bennet, his father, 
an alderman of the city of London, had bought a seat 
near Cambridge, called Babraham or Babram, that had 
belonged to Sir Toby Palavicini. The alderman appears 
to have been a loyal citizen, as he was created baronet 
in 1660. His two sons, Sir Richard and Sir Thomas, 
married daughters of Sir Lavinius Munck ; — so we need 
not accuse Dorothy of irretrievably breaking hearts by 
her various refusals. 

When Dorothy says she will " sit like the lady of the 
lobster, and give audience at Babram," she simply 
means that she will sit among magnificent surroundings 
unsuited to her modest disposition. The "lady" of a 



no Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

lobster is a curious -shaped substance in the head of 
that fish, bearing some distant resemblance to the figure 
of a woman. The expression is still known to fish- 
mongers and others, who also refer to the " Adam and 
Eve" in a shrimp, a kindred formation. Curiously 
enough, this very phrase has completely puzzled Dr. 
Grosart, the learned editor of Herrick, who confesses 
that he can make nothing of the allusion in the follow- 
ing passage from The Fairie Temple : — 

" The saint to which the most he prayes, 
And offers Incense Nights and Dayes, 
The Lady of the Lobster is 
Whose foot-pace he doth stroak and kiss." 

Swift, too, uses the phrase in his Battle of the Books in 
describing the encounter between Virgil and Dryden, 
where he says, " The helmet was nine times too large 
for the head, which appeared situate far in the hinder 
part, even like the lady in a lobster, or a mouse under 
a canopy of state, or like a shrivelled beau from within 
the pent-house of a modern periwig." 

Sir, — I do not know that anybody has frighted 
me, or beaten me, or put me into more passion 
than what I usually carry about me, but yesterday 
I missed my fit, and am not without hope I shall 
hear no more on't. My father has lost his too, 
and my eldest brother, but we all look like people 
risen from the dead. Only my cousin Molle 
keeps his still ; and, in earnest, I am not certain 
whether he would lose it or not, for it gives him 
a lawful occasion of being nice and cautious about 
himself, to which he in his own humour is so 
much inclined that 'twere not easy for him to 



Life at Chicksands. 1 1 1 

forbear it. You need not send me my Lady 
Newcastle's book at all, for I have seen it, and 
am satisfied that there are many soberer people 
in Bedlam. I'll swear her friends are much to 
blame to let her go abroad. 

But I am hugely pleased that you have seen 
my Lady. I knew you could not choose but like 
her ; but yet, let me tell you, you have seen but 
the worst of her. Her conversation has more 
charms than can be in mere beauty, and her 
humour and disposition would make a deformed 
person appear lovely. You had strange luck to 
meet my brother so soon. He went up but last 
Tuesday. I heard from him on Thursday, but 
he did not tell me he had seen you ; perhaps he 
did not think it convenient to put me in mind 
of you ; besides, he thought he told me enough 
in telling me my cousin Osborne was married. 
Why did you not send me that news and a 
garland ? Well, the best on't is I have a squire 
now that is as good as a knight. He was coming 
as fast as a coach and six horses could carry him, 
but I desired him to stay till my ague was gone, 
and give me a little time to recover my good 
looks ; for I protest if he saw me now he would 
never deign to see me again. Oh, me ! I can 
but think how I shall sit like the lady of the 
lobster, and give audience at Babram. You have 
been there, I am sure. Nobody that is at Cam- 
bridge 'scapes it. But you were never so wel- 



112 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

come thither as you shall be when I am mistress 

on't. In the meantime, I have sent you the first 

tome of Cyrus to read ; when you have done with 

it, leave it at Mr. Hollingsworth's, and I'll send 

you another. I have had ladies with me all the 

afternoon that are for London to-morrow, and 

now I have as many letters to write as my Lord 

General's Secretary. Forgive me that this is no 

longer, for 

I am your. 

Addressed— 

For Mrs. Paynter, at her house in 
Bedford Street, next ye Goate, 
In Covent Garden. 

Letter 22. — Mr. Fish and Mr. Freeman were probably 
neighbours of Dorothy. There is a Mr. Ralph Freeman 
of Aspedon Hall, in Hertfordshire, mentioned in 
contemporary chronicles; he died in 17 14, aged 88, 
and was therefore about 37 years of age at this time. 
His father seems to have been an ideal country gentle- 
man, "who," says Sir Henry Chauncy, "made his house 
neat, his gardens pleasant, his groves delicious, his 
children cheerful, his servants easy, and kept excellent 
order in his family." 

Sir, — You are more in my debt than you 
imagine. I never deserved a long letter so much 
as now, when you sent me a short one. I could 
tell you such a story ('tis too long to be written) 
as would make you see (what I never discover'd 



Life at Chicksands. 113 

in myself before) that I am a valiant lady. In 
earnest, we have had such a skirmish, and upon 
so foolish an occasion, as I cannot tell which is 
strangest. The Emperor and his proposals began 
it ; I talked merrily on't till I saw my brother 
put on his sober face, and could hardly then 
believe he was in earnest. It seems he was, for 
when I had spoke freely my meaning, it wrought 
so with him as to fetch up all that lay on his 
stomach. All the people that I had ever in my 
life refused were brought again upon the stao-e, 
like Richard the III.'s ghosts, to reproach me 
withal ; and all the kindness his discoveries could 
make I had for you was laid to my charge. My 
best qualities (if I have any that are good) served 
but for aggravations of my fault, and I was 
allowed to have wit and understanding and dis- 
cretion in other things, that it might appear I had 
none in this. Well, 'twas a pretty lecture, and I 
grew warm with it after a while ; in short, we came 
so near an absolute falling out, that 'twas time to 
give over, and we said so much then that we 
have hardly spoken a word together since. But 
'tis wonderful to see what curtseys and legs pass 
between us ; and as before we were thought the 
kindest brother and sister, we are certainly the 
most complimental couple in England. 'Tis a 
strange change, and I am very sorry for it, but 
I'll swear I know not how to help it. I look 
upon't as one of my great misfortunes, and I must 

H 



U4 Letters from Dorothy Osboi-ne. 

bear it, as that which is not my first nor likely to 
be my last. 'Tis but reasonable (as you say) that 
you should see me, and yet I know not now how 
it can well be. I am not for disguises, it looks like 
guilt, and I would not do a thing I durst not 
own. I cannot tell whether (if there were a 
necessity of your coming) I should not choose to 
have it when he is at home, and rather expose 
him to the trouble of entertaining a person whose 
company (here) would not be pleasing to him, 
and perhaps an opinion that I did it purposely to 
cross him, than that your coming in his absence 
should be thought a concealment. 'Twas one 
reason more than I told you why I resolv'd not 
to go to Epsom this summer, because I knew he 
would imagine it an agreement between us, and 
that something besides my spleen carried me 
thither ; but whether you see me or not you may 
be satisfied I am safe enough, and you are in no 
danger to lose your prisoner, since so great a 
violence as this has not broke her chains. You 
will have nothing to thank me for after this ; my 
whole life will not yield such another occasion to 
let you see at what rate I value your friendship, 
and I have been much better than my word in 
doing but what I promised you, since I have 
found it a much harder thing not to yield to the 
power of a near relation, and a greater kindness 
than I could then imagine it. 

To let you see I did not repent me of the last 



Life at Chicksands. 115 

commission, I'll give you another. Here is a 
seal that Walker set for me, and 'tis dropt out ; 
pray give it him to mend. If anything could 
be wonder'd at in this age, I should very much 
how you came by your informations. 'Tis 
more than I know if Mr. Freeman be my 
servant. I saw him not long since, and he told 
me no such thing. Do you know him? In 
earnest, he's a pretty gentleman, and has a great 
deal of good nature, I think, which may oblige 
him perhaps to speak well of his acquaintances 
without design. Mr. Fish is the Squire of 
Dames, and has so many mistresses that anybody 
may pretend a share in him and be believed ; but 
though I have the honour to be his near neigh- 
bour, to speak freely, I cannot brag much that he 
makes any court to me ; and I know no young 
woman in the country that he does not visit often. 
I have sent you another tome of Cyrus, pray 
send the first to Mr. Hollingsworth for my Lady. 
My cousin Molle went from hence to Cambridge 
on Thursday, and there's an end of Mr. Bennet. 
I have no company now but my niece Peyton, 
and my brother will be shortly for the term, but 
will make no long stay in town. I think my 
youngest brother comes down with him. Re- 
member that you owe me a long letter and some- 
thing for forgiving your last. I have no room 
for more than 

Your. 



n6 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

Letter 23. 

Sir, — I will tell you no more of my servants. 
I can no sooner give you some little hints where- 
abouts they live, but you know them presently, 
and I meant you should be beholding to me for 
your acquaintance. But it seems this gentleman 
is not so easy access, but you may acknowledge 
something due to me, if I incline him to look 
graciously upon you, and therefore there is not 
much harm done. What has kept him from 
marrying all this time, or how the humour comes 
so furiously upon him now, I know not ; but if he 
may be believed, he is resolved to be a most 
romance squire, and go in quest of some en- 
chanted damsel, whom if he likes, as to her 
person (for fortune is a thing below him), — and 
we do not read in history that any knight or 
squire was ever so discourteous as to inquire 
what portions their ladies had, — then he comes 
with the power of the county to demand her 
(which for the present he may dispose of, being 
Sheriff), so I do not see who is able to resist 
him. All that is to be hoped is, that since he may 
reduce whomsoever he pleases to his obedience, 
he will be very curious in his choice, and then I 
am secure. 

It may be I dreamt it that you had met my 
brother, or else it was one of the reveries of 
my ague ; if so, I hope I shall fall into no more 



Life at Chicksands. 117 

of them. I have missed four fits, and had but 
five, and have recovered so much strength as 
made me venture to meet your letter on Wednes- 
day, a mile from home. Yet my recovery will 
be nothing towards my leaving this place, where 
many reasons will oblige me to stay at least all 
this summer, unless some great alteration should 
happen in this family ; that which I most own is 
my father's ill-health, which, though it be not in 
that extremity it has been, yet keeps him still a 
prisoner in his chamber, and for the most part to 
his bed, which is reason enough. But, besides, I 
can give you others. I am here much more out 
of people's way than in town, where my aunt and 
such as pretend an interest in me, and a power 
over me, do so persecute me with their good 
nature, and take it so ill that they are not ac- 
cepted, as I would live in a hollow tree to avoid 
them. Here I have nobody but my brother to 
torment me, whom I can take the liberty to dis- 
pute with, and whom I have prevailed with 
hitherto to bring none of his pretenders to this 
place, because of the noise all such people make 
in a country, and the tittle - tattle it breeds 
among neighbours that have nothing to do but 
to inquire who marries and who makes love. If 
I can but keep him still in that humour, Mr. 
Bennet and I are likely to preserve our state and 
treat at distance like princes ; but we have not sent 
one another our pictures yet, though my cousin 



1 1 8 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

Molle, who was his agent here, begged mine very 
earnestly. But, I thank God, an imagination 
took him one morninof that he was falling into a 

o fc> 

dropsy, and made him in such haste to go back 
to Cambridge to his doctor, that he never remem- 
bers anything he has to ask of me, but the coach 
to carry him away. I lent it most willingly, and 
gone he is. My eldest brother goes up to town 
on Monday too ; perhaps you may see him, but 
I cannot direct you where to find him, for he is 
not yet resolved himself where to lie ; only 'tis 
likely Nan may tell you when he is there. He 
will make no stay, I believe. You will think him 
altered (and, if it be possible) more melancholy 
than he was. If marriage agrees no better with 
other people than it does with him, I shall pray 
that all my friends may 'scape it. Yet if I were 
my cousin, H. Danvers, my Lady Diana should 
not, if I could help it, as well as I love her: I 
would try if ten thousand pound a year with a 
husband that doted on her, as I should do, could 
not keep her from being unhappy. Well, in 
earnest, if I were a prince, that lady should be 
my mistress, but I can give no rule to any one 
else, and perhaps those that are in no danger of 
losing their hearts to her may be infinitely taken 
with one I should not value at all ; for (so says 
the Justinian) wise Providence has ordained it 
that by their different humours everybody might 
find something to please themselves withal, with- 



Life at Chicksands. 1 1 9 

out envying their neighbours. And now I have 
begun to talk gravely and wisely, I'll try if I can 
go a little further without being out. No, I can- 
not, for I have forgot already what 'twas I would 
have said ; but 'tis no matter, for, as I remember, 
it was not much to the purpose, and, besides, I 
have paper little enough left to chide you for 
asking so unkind a question as whether you 
were still the same in my thoughts. Have you 
deserved to be otherwise ; that is, am I no more 
in yours ? For till that be, it's impossible the 
other should ; but that will never be, and I shall 
always be the same I am. M.y heart tells me 
so, and I believe it; for were it otherwise, Fortune 
would not persecute me thus. Oh, me ! she's 
cruel, and how far her power may reach I know 
not, only I am sure, she cannot call back time 
that is past, and it is long since we resolved to be 
for ever 

Most faithful friends. 



Letter 24. — Tom Cheeke is Sir Thomas Cheeke, Knight, 
of Purgo, in the county of Essex, or more probably his 
son, from the way Dorothy speaks of him ; but it is 
difficult to discriminate among constant generations of 
Toms after a lapse of two hundred years. We find 
Sir Thomas's daughter was at this time the third wife 
of Lord Manchester ; and it appears that Dorothy's 
great-grandfather married Catherine Cheeke, daughter 
of the then Sir Thomas. This will assist us to the 
connection between Dorothy, Tom Cheeke, and Lord 



120 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

Manchester. Sir Richard Franklin, Knight, married a 
daughter of Sir Thomas Cheeke. He purchased Moor 
Park, Hertfordshire, about this time. The park and 
the mansion he bought in 1652 from the Earl of 
Monmouth, and the manor in 1655 from Sir Charles 
Harbord. The gardens had been laid out by the 
Countess of Bedford, who had sold the place in 1626 
to the Earl of Pembroke. The house was well known 
to Temple, who describes the gardens in his Essay on 
Gardening ; and when he retired in later years to an 
estate near Farnham in Surrey, he gave to it the name 
of Moor Park. 

Lord Manchester was Edward Montagu, second Earl 
of Manchester. He was educated at Sidney Sussex 
College, Cambridge, and sat for Huntingdonshire in the 
first two Parliaments of Charles I. He was called to 
the Upper House as Lord Kimbolton in 1626, and 
succeeded his father in 1642. His name is well known 
in history as that of the leader of the Puritans in the 
House of Lords, and as the only peer joined with the 
five members impeached by the King. He raised a 
regiment and fought under Essex at Edgehill, recon- 
quered Lincolnshire, and took part in the battle of 
Marston Moor. At this time Cromwell was his sub- 
ordinate, and to his directions Lord Manchester's 
successes are in all probability due. At the second 
battle of Newbury, Lord Manchester showed some 
hesitation in following up his success, and Cromwell 
accused him of lukewarmness in the cause from his 
place in the House of Commons. An inquiry was 
instituted, but the Committee never carried out their 
investigations, and in parliamentary language the matter 
then dropped. He afterwards held, among other offices, 
that of Chancellor of the University of Cambridge, 



Life at Chicksands. 121 

and inducted a visitation and reform of that University. 
He resisted the trial of the King and the foundation of 
the Commonwealth, refused to sit in Cromwell's new 
House of Lords, and was among those Presbyterians 
who helped to bring about the Restoration. 

Cooper and Hoskins were famous miniature painters 
of the day. Samuel Cooper was a nephew of John 
Hoskins, who instructed him in the art of miniature 
painting, in which he soon out -rivalled his master. 
Cooper, who is styled by contemporary eulogists the 
" prince of limners," gave a strength and freedom to the 
art which it had not formerly possessed ; but where he 
attempted to express more of the figure than the head, 
his drawing is defective. His painting was famous for 
the beauty of his carnation tints, and the loose flowing 
lines in which he described the hair of his model. He 
was a friend of the famous Samuel Butler. Hoskins, 
though a painter of less merit, had had the honour of 
painting His Majesty King Charles I., his Queen, and 
many members of the Court ; and had passed through 
the varying fortunes of a fashionable portrait -painter, 
whose position, leaning as it does on the fickle approba- 
tion of the connoisseurs, is always liable to be wrested 
from him by a younger rival. 

It is noticeable that this is the first letter in which 
we have intimation of the world's gossip about Dorothy's 
love affairs. We may, perhaps not unfairly, trace the 
growth of Dorothy's affection for Temple by the actions 
of others. First her brother raises his objections, and 
then her relations begin to gossip ; meanwhile the letters 
do not grow less kind. 

Sir, — You amaze me with your story of Tom 
Cheeke. I am certain he could not have had it 



122 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

where you imagine, and 'tis a miracle to me that 
he remember that there is such a one in the 
world as his cousin D. O. I am sure he has not 
seen her this six year, and I think but once in 
his life. If he has spread his opinion in that 
family, I shall quickly hear on't, for my cousin 
Molle is now gone to Kimbolton to my Lord 
Manchester, and from there he goes to Moor Park 
to my cousin Franklin's, and in one, or both, he 
will be sure to meet with it. The matter is not 
great, for I confess I do naturally hate the noise 
and talk of the world, and should be best pleased 
never to be known in't upon any occasion what- 
soever ; yet, since it can never be wholly avoided, 
one must satisfy oneself by doing nothing that 
one need care who knows. I do not think a 
propos to tell anybody that you and I are very 
good friends, and it were better, sure, if nobody 
knew it but we ourselves. But if, in spite of all 
our caution, it be discovered, 'tis no treason nor 
anything else that's ill ; and if anybody should tell 
me that I have had a greater kindness and esteem 
for you than for any one besides, I do not think I 
should deny it ; howsoever you do, oblige me by 
not owning any such thing, for as you say, I have 
no reason to take it ill that you endeavour to 
preserve me a liberty, though I'm never likely to 
make use on't. Besides that, I agree with you too 
that certainly 'tis much better you should owe my 
kindness to nothing but your own merit and my 



Life at Chicksands. 123 

inclination, than that there should lie any other 
necessity upon me of making good my words to 
you. 

For God's sake do not complain so that you do 
not see me ; I believe I do not suffer less in't than 
you, but 'tis not to be helped. If I had a picture 
that were fit for you, you should have it. I have 
but one that's anything like, and that's a great 
one, but I will send it some time or other to 
Cooper or Hoskins, and have a little one drawn 
by it, if I cannot be in town to sit myself. You 
undo me by but dreaming how happy we might 
have been, when I consider how far we are from 
it in reality. Alas ! how can you talk of defying 
fortune ; nobody lives without it, and therefore 
why should you imagine you could ? I know not 
how my brother comes to be so well informed as 
you say, but I am certain he knows the utmost of 
the injuries you have received from her. 'Tis not 
possible she should have used you worse than he 
says. We have had another debate, but much 
more calmly. 'Twas just upon his going up to 
town, and perhaps he thought it not fit to part in 
anger. Not to wrong him, he never said to me 
(whate'er he thought) a word in prejudice of 
you in your own person, and I never heard him 
accuse any but your fortune and my indiscretion. 
And whereas I did expect that (at least in com- 
pliment to me) he should have said we had been 
a couple of fools well met, he says by his troth he 



124 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

does not blame you, but bids me not deceive my- 
self to think you have any great passion for me. 

If you have done with the first part of Cyrus, I 
should be glad Mr. Hollingsworth had it, because 
I mentioned some such thing in my last to my 
Lady ; but there is no haste of restoring the other 
unless she should send to me for it, which I 
believe she will not. I have a third tome here 
against you have done with that second ; and to 
encourage you, let me assure you that the more 
you read of them you will like them still better. 
Oh, me ! whilst I think on't, let me ask you one 
question seriously, and pray resolve me truly ; — do 
I look so stately as people apprehend ? I vow to 
you I made nothing on't when Sir Emperor said 
so, because I had no great opinion of his judg- 
ment, but Mr. Freeman makes me mistrust myself 
extremely, not that I am sorry I did appear so 
to him (since it kept me from the displeasure of 
refusing an offer which I do not perhaps deserve), 
but that it is a scurvy quality in itself, and I am 
afraid I have it in great measure if I showed any 
of it to him, for whom I have so much respect 
and esteem. If it be so you must needs know it ; 
for though my kindness will not let me look so upon 
you, you can see what I do to other people. And, 
besides, there was a time when we ourselves were 
indifferent to one another ; — did I do so then, or 
have I learned it since ? For God's sake tell me, 
that I may try to mend it. I could wish, too, that 



Life at Chicksands. 125 

you would lay your commands on me to forbear 
fruit : here is enough to kill 1000 such as I am, 
and so extremely good, that nothing but your 
power can secure me ; therefore forbid it me, that 
I may live to be 

Your. 

Letter 25. — Dorothy's dissertations on love and 
marriage are always amusing in their demureness. 
Who Cousin Peters was we cannot now say, but she 
was evidently a relation and a gossip. The episode con- 
cerning Mistress Harrison and the Queen is explained 
by the following quotation from the autobiography of 
the Countess of Warwick. 

She is writing of Mr. Charles Rich, and says : " He 
was then in love with a Maid of Honour to the Queen, 
one Mrs. Hareson, that had been chamber-fellow to my 
sister-in-law whilst she lived at Court, and that brought 
on the acquaintance between him and my sister. He 
continued to be much with us for about five or six 
months, till my brother Broghill then (afterwards Earl of 
Orrery) grew also to be passionately in love with the 
same Mrs. Hareson. My brother then having a quarrel 
with Mr. Thomas Howard, second son to the Earl of 
Berkshire, about Mrs. Hareson (with whom he also was 
in love), Mr. Rich brought my brother a challenge from 
Mr. Howard, and was second to him against my brother 
when they fought, which they did without any great hurt 
of any side, being parted. This action made Mr. Rich 
judge it not civil to come to our house, and so for some 
time forbore doing it ; but at last my brother's match 
with Mrs. Hareson being unhandsomely (on her side) 
broken off, when they were so near being married as the 



126 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

wedding clothes were to be made, and she after married 
Mr. Thomas Howard (to my father's great satisfaction), 
who always was averse to it, though, to comply with my 
brother's passion, he consented to it." There is a refer- 
ence to the duel in a letter of Lord Cork, which fixes 
the date as 1639-40, but Mr. Nevile's name is nowhere 
mentioned. 

Lord Broghill is well known to the history of that 
time, both literary and political. He was Roger Boyle, 
afterwards Earl of Orrery, the fifth son of the " great 
Earl of Cork." He acted for the Parliament against the 
Catholics in Ireland, but was still thought to retain some 
partiality for the King's party. Cromwell, however, 
considered himself secure in Lord Broghill's attachment ; 
and, indeed, he continued to serve not only Cromwell 
during his lifetime, but his son Richard, after his father's 
death, with great fidelity. Lord Broghill was active in 
forwarding the Restoration in Ireland, and in reward of 
his services was made Earl of Orrery. He died in 1679. 

Sir, — You have furnished me now with argu- 
ments to convince my brother, if he should ever 
enter on the dispute again. In earnest, I believed 
all this before, but 'twas something an ignorant 
kind of faith in me. I was satisfied myself, but 
could not tell how to persuade another of the 
truth on't ; and to speak indifferently, there are 
such multitudes that abuse the names of love and 
friendship, and so very few that either understand 
or practise it in reality, that it may raise great 
doubts whether there is any such thing in the 
world or not, and such as do not find it in them- 



Life at Chicksands. 127 

selves will hardly believe 'tis anywhere. But it 
will easily be granted, that most people make 
haste to be miserable ; that they put on their 
fetters as inconsiderately as a woodcock runs into 
a noose, and are carried by the weakest con- 
siderations imaginable to do a thing of the 
greatest consequence of anything that concerns 
this world. I was told by one (who pretends to 
know him very well) that nothing tempted my 
cousin Osborne to marry his lady (so much) as 
that she was an Earl's daughter ; which methought 
was the prettiest fancy, and had the least of sense 
in it, of any I had heard on, considering that it 
was no addition to her person, that he had honour 
enough before for his fortune, and how little it is 
esteemed in this age, — if it be anything" in abetter, 
— which for my part I am not well satisfied in. 
Beside that, in this particular it does not sound 
handsomely. My Lady Bridget Osborne makes 
a worse name a great deal, methinks, than plain 
my Lady Osborne would do. 

I have been studying how Tom Cheeke might 
come by his intelligence, and I verily believe he 
has it from my cousin Peters. She lives near 
them in Essex, and in all likelihood, for want of 
other discourse to entertain him withal, she has 
come out with all she knows. The last time I 
saw her she asked me for you before she had 
spoke six words to me; and I, who of all things do 
not love to make secrets of trifles, told her I had 



128 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

seen you that day. She said no more, nor I neither; 
but perhaps it worked in her little brain. The best 
on't is, the matter is not great, for though I con- 
fess I had rather nobody knew it, yet 'tis that I 
shall never be ashamed to own. 

How kindly do I take these civilities of your 
father's ; in earnest, you cannot imagine how his 
letter pleased me. I used to respect him merely 
as he was your father, but I begin now to owe it 
to himself; all that he says is so kind and so 
obliging, so natural and so easy, that one may see 
'tis perfectly his disposition, and has nothing to 
disguise in it. 'Tis long since that I knew 
how well he writ, perhaps you have forgot that 
you showed me a letter of his (to a French 
Marquis, I think, or some such man of his 
acquaintance) when I first knew you ; I remember 
it very well, and that I thought it as handsome a 
letter as I had seen ; but I have not skill it seems, 
for I like yours too. 

I can pardon all my cousin Franklin's little 
plots of discovery, if she believed herself when 
she said she was confident our humours would 
agree extremely well. In earnest, I think they do ; 
for I mark that I am always of your opinion, 
unless it be when you will not allow that you 
write well, for there I am too much concerned. 
Jane told me t'other day very soberly that we 
write very much alike. I think she said it with 
an intent to please me, and did not fail in't ; but 



Life at Chicksands. 1 29 

if you write ill, 'twas no great compliment to me. 
A propos de Jane, she bids me tell you that, if you 
liked your marmalade of quince, she would send 
you more, and she thinks better, that has been 
made since. 

'Twas a strange caprice, as you say, of Mrs. 
Harrison, but there is fate as well as love in 
those things. The Queen took the greatest 
pains to persuade her from it that could be ; and 
(as somebody says, I know not who) " Majesty is 
no ill orator ; " but all would not do. When she 
had nothing to say for herself, she told her she 
had rather be°f with Mr. Howard than live in the 
greatest plenty that could be with either my Lord 
Broghill, Charles Rich, or Mr. Nevile, — for all 
these were dying for her then. I am afraid she 
has altered her opinion since 'twas too late, for I 
do not take Mr. Howard to be a person that can 
deserve one should neglect all the world for him, 
And where there is no reason to uphold a passion, 
it will sink of itself; but where there is, it may last 
eternally. — I am yours. 

Letter 26. 

Sir, — The day I should have received your 
letter I was invited to dine at a rich widow's 
(whom I think I once told you of, and offered my 
service in case you thought fit to make addresses 
there) ; and she was so kind, and in so good 

1 



130 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

humour, that if I had had any commission I should 
have thought it a very fit time to speak. We 
had a huge dinner, though the company was only 
of her own kindred that are in the house with her 
and what I brought ; but she is broke loose from 
an old miserable husband that lived so long, she 
thinks if she does not make haste she shall not 
have time to spend what he left. She is old and 
was never handsome, and yet is courted a thou- 
sand times more than the greatest beauty in the 
world would be that had not a fortune. We could 
not eat in quiet for the letters and presents that 
came in from people that would not have looked 
upon her when they had met her if she had been 
left poor. I could not but laugh to myself at the 
meanness of their humour, and was merry enough 
all day, for the company was very good ; and 
besides, I expected to find when I came home a 
letter from you that would be more a feast and 
company to me than all that was there. But 
never anybody was so defeated as I was to find 
none. I could not imagine the reason, only I 
assured myself it was no fault of yours, but 
perhaps a just punishment upon me for having 
been too much pleased in a company where you 
were not. 

After supper my brother and I fell into dispute 
about riches, and the great advantages of it ; he 
instanced in the widow that it made one respected 
in the world. I said 'twas true, but that was a 



Life at Chicksands. 131 

respect I should not at all value when I owed it 

only to my fortune. And we debated it so long 

till we had both talked ourselves weary enough to 

go to bed. Yet I did not sleep so well but that I 

chid my maid for waking me in the morning, till 

she stopped my mouth with saying she had letters 

for me. I had not patience to stay till I could 

rise, but made her tie up all the curtains to let in 

light ; and among some others I found my dear 

letter that was first to be read, and which made 

all the rest not worth the reading. I could not 

but wonder to find in it that my cousin Franklin 

should want a true friend when 'tis thought she 

has the best husband in the world ; he was so 

passionate for her before he had her, and so 

pleased with her since, that, in earnest, I did not 

think it possible she could have anything left to 

wish for that she had not already in such a 

husband with such a fortune. But she can best 

tell whether she is happy or not ; only if she be 

not, I do not see how anybody else can hope it. 

I know her the least of all the sisters, and perhaps 

'tis to my advantage that she knows me no more, 

since she speaks so obligingly of me. But do 

you think it was altogether without design she 

spoke it to you ? When I remember she is Tom 

Cheeke's sister, I am apt to think she might have 

heard his news, and meant to try whether there 

was anything of truth in't. My cousin Molle, I 

think, means to end the summer there. They 



132 Letters front Dorothy Osborne. 

say, indeed, 'tis a very fine seat, but if I did not 
mistake Sir Thomas Cheeke, he told me there was 
never a good room in the house. I was wonder- 
ing how you came by an acquaintance there, 
because I had never heard you speak that you 
knew them. I never saw him in my life, but he 
is famous for a kind husband. Only 'twas found 
fault with that he could not forbear kissing his 
wife before company, a foolish trick that young 
married men are apt to ; he has left it long since, 
I suppose. But, seriously, 'tis as ill a sight as one 
would wish to see, and appears very rude, me- 
thinks, to the company. 

What a strange fellow this goldsmith is, he 
has a head fit for nothing but horns. I chid 
him once for a seal he set me just of this 
fashion and the same colours. If he were to 
make twenty they should be all so, his invention 
can stretch no further than blue and red. It 
makes me think of the fellow that could paint 
nothing but a flower-de-luce, who, when he met 
with one that was so firmly resolved to have 
a lion for his sign that there was no persuading 
him out on't, " Well," says the painter, " let it be 
a lion then, but it shall be as like a flower-de- 
luce as e'er you saw." So, because you would 
have it a dolphin, he consented to it, but it is like 
an ill-favoured knot of ribbon. I did not say 
anything of my father's being ill of late ; I think I 
told you before, he kept his chamber ever since 



Life at Chicksands. 133 

his last sickness, and so he does still. Yet I 
cannot say that he is at all sick, but has so general 
a weakness upon him that I am much afraid their 
opinion of him has too much of truth in it, and do 
extremely apprehend how the winter may work 
upon him. Will you pardon this strange scribbled 
letter, and the disorderliness on't ? I know you 
would, though I should not tell you that I am not 
so much at leisure as I used to be. You can 
forgive your friends anything, and when I am not 
the faithfulest of those, never forgive me. You 
may direct your letters how you please, here will 
be nobody to receive it but 

Your. 

Letter 27. — Althorp, in Northamptonshire, was the seat 
of Lady Sunderland's first husband, Robert Lord Spencer. 

Sir, — Your last came safe, and I shall follow 
your direction for the address of this, though, as 
you say, I cannot imagine what should tempt 
anybody to so severe a search for them, unless 
it be that he is not yet fully satisfied to what 
degree our friendship is grown, and thinks he 
may best inform himself from them. In earnest, 
'twould not be unpleasant to hear our discourse. 
He forms his with so much art and design, and 
is so pleased with the hopes of making some 
discovery, and I [who] know him as well as he 
does himself, cannot but give myself the recrea- 
ton sometimes of confounding him and destroying 



134 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

all that his busy head had been working on since 
the last conference. He gives me some trouble 
with his suspicions ; yet, on my conscience, he is 
a greater to himself, and I deal with so much 
franchise as to tell him so ; and yet he has no 
more the heart to ask me directly what he 
would so fain know, than a jealous man has to 
ask (one that might tell him) whether he were a 
cuckold or not, for fear of being resolved of that 
which is yet a doubt to him. My eldest brother 
is not so inquisitive ; he satisfies himself with 
persuading me earnestly to marry, and takes 
no notice of anything that may hinder me, but 
a carelessness of my fortune, or perhaps an 
aversion to a kind of life that appears to have 
less of freedom in't than that which at present 
I enjoy. But, sure, he gives himself another 
reason, for 'tis not very long since he took 
occasion to inquire for you very kindly of me ; 
and though I could then give but little account 
of you, he smiled as if he did not altogether 
believe me, and afterwards maliciously said he 
wondered you did not marry. And I seemed to 
do so too, and said, if I knew any woman that 
had a great fortune, and were a person worthy of 
you, I should wish her you with all my heart. 
" But, sister," says he, " would you have him 
love her ? " " Do you doubt it ? " did I say ; 
" he were not happy in't else." He laughed, 
and said my humour was pleasant ; but he made 



Life at Chicksands. 135 

some question whether it was natural or not. 
He cannot be so unjust as to let me lose him, 
sure, I was kind to him though I had some reason 
not to take it very well when he made that a 
secret to me which was known to so many that 
did not know him ; but we shall never fall out, I 
believe, we are not apt to it, neither of us. 

If you are come back from Epsom, I may ask 

you how you like drinking water ? I have wished 

it might agree as well with you as it did with me ; 

and if it were as certain that the same thing 

would do us good as 'tis that the same thino- 

would please us, I should not need to doubt it. 

Otherwise my wishes do not signify much, but I am 

forbid complaints, or to express my fears. And be 

it so, only you must pardon me if I cannot agree 

to give you false hopes ; I must be deceived myself 

before I can deceive you, and I have so accustomed 

myself to tell you all that I think, that I must either 

say nothing, or that which I believe to be true. 

I cannot say but that I have wanted Jane ; 
but it has been rather to have somebody to talk 
with of you, than that I needed anybody to put me 
in mind of you, and with all her diligence I should 
have often prevented her in that discourse. Were 
you at Althorp when you saw my Lady Sunder- 
land and Mr. Smith, or are they in town ? I 
have heard, indeed, that they are very happy ; 
but withal that, as she is a very extraordinary 
person herself, so she aimed at doing extra- 



136 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

ordinary things, and when she had married Mr. 
Smith (because some people were so bold as to 
think she did it because she loved him) she 
undertook to convince the world that what she 
had done was in mere pity to his sufferings, 
and that she could not go a step lower to meet 
anybody than that led her, though when she 
thought there were no eyes on her, she was 
more gracious to him. But perhaps this might 
not be true, or it may be she is now grown 
weary of that constraint she put upon herself. 
I should have been sadder than you if I had 
been their neighbour to have seen them so kind ; 
as I must have been if I had married the 
Emperor. He used to brag to me always of a 
great acquaintance he had there, what an esteem 
my lady had for him, and had the vanity (not to 
call it impudence) to talk sometimes as if he 
would have had me believe he nwht have had 
her, and would not ; I'll swear I blushed for him 
when I saw he did not. He told me too, that 
though he had carried his addresses to me with 
all the privacy that was possible, because he saw I 
liked it best, and that 'twas partly his own humour 
too, yet she had discovered it, and could tell that 
there had been such a thing, and that it was broke 
off again, she knew not why ; which certainly was 
a lie, as well as the other, for I do not think she 
ever heard there was such a one in the world as 

Your faithful friend. 



Life at Chicksands. 137 

Letter 28. — Dorothy's allusion to the " Seven Sleepers " 
refers to a story which occurs in the Golden Legend and 
other places, of seven noble youths of Ephesus, who fled 
from persecution to a cave in Mount Celion. After two 
hundred and thirty years they awoke, but only to die soon 
afterwards. The fable is said to have arisen from a mis- 
interpretation of the text, "They fell asleep in the Lord." 

Sir, — I did not lay it as a fault to your charge 
that you were not good at disguise ; if it be one, 
I am too guilty on't myself to accuse another. 
And though I have been told it shows an un- 
practisedness in the world, and betrays to all 
that understand it better, yet since it is a 
quality I was not born with, nor ever like to get, 
I have always thought good to maintain that it 
was better not to need it than to have it. 

I give you many thanks for your care of my 
Irish dog, but I am extremely out of countenance 
your father should be troubled with it. Sure, he 
will think I have a most extravagant fancy ; but 
do me the right as to let him know I am not 
so possessed with it as to consent he should be 
employed in such a commission. 

Your opinion of my eldest brother is, I think, 
very just, and when I said maliciously, I meant a 
French malice, which you know does not signify 
the same with an English one. I know not 
whether I told it you or not, but I concluded (from 
what you said of your indisposition) that it was 
very like the spleen ; but perhaps I foresaw you 



138 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

would not be willing to own a disease that the 
severe part of the world holds to be merely 
imaginary and affected, and therefore proper only 
to women. However, I cannot but wish you had 
stayed longer at Epsom and drunk the waters 
with more order though in a less proportion, 
But did you drink them immediately from the 
well ? I remember I was forbid it, and methought 
with a great deal of reason, for (especially at this 
time of year) the well is so low, and there is such 
a multitude to be served out on't, that you can 
hardly get any but what is thick and troubled ; 
and I have marked that when it stood all night 
(for that was my direction) the bottom of the 
vessel it stood in would be covered an inch thick 
with a white clay, which, sure, has no great virtue 
in't, and is not very pleasant to drink. 

What a character of a young couple you give 
me ! Would you would ask some one who knew 
him, whether he be not much more of an ass 
since his marriage than he was before. I have 
some reason to doubt that it alters people 
strangely. I made a visit t'other day to welcome 
a lady into this country whom her husband had 
newly brought down, and because I knew him, 
though not her, and she was a stranger here, 
'twas a civility I owed them. But you cannot 
imagine how I was surprised to see a man that 
I had known so handsome, so capable of being 
made a pretty gentleman (for though he was no 



Life at Chicksands. 139 

proud philosopher, as the Frenchmen say, he was 
that which good company and a little knowledge 
of the world would have made equal to many that 
think themselves very well, and are thought so), 
transformed into the direct shape of a great boy 
newly come from school. To see him wholly 
taken up with running on errands for his wife, and 
teaching; her little door tricks ! And this was the 
best of him ; for when he was at leisure to talk, 
he would suffer no one else to do it, and what he 
said, and the noise he made, if you had heard it, 
you would have concluded him drunk with joy 
that he had a wife and a pack of hounds. I was 
so weary on't that I made haste home, and could 
not but think of the change all the way till my 
brother (who was with me) thought me sad, and 
so, to put me in better humour, said he believed 
I repented me I had not this gentleman, now I 
saw how absolutely his wife governed him. But 
I assured him, that though I thought it very fit 
such as he should be governed, yet I should not 
like the employment by no means. It becomes no 
woman, and did so ill with this lady that in my 
opinion it spoiled a good face and a very fine 
gown. Yet the woman you met upon the way 
governed her husband and did it handsomely. It 
was, as you say, a great example of friendship, and 
much for the credit of our sex. 

You are too severe to Walker. I'll undertake 
he would set me twenty seals for nothing rather 



140 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

than undergo your wrath. I am in no haste for 
it, and so he does it well we will not fall out ; 
perhaps he is not in the humour of keeping his 
word at present, and nobody can blame him if he 
be often in an ill one. But though I am merciful 
to him, as to one that has suffered enough already, 
I cannot excuse you that profess to be my friend 
and yet are content to let me live in such ignor- 
ance, write to me every week, and yet never send 
me any of the new phrases of the town. I could 
tell you, without abandoning the truth, that it is 
part of your devoyre to correct the imperfections 
you find under my hand, and that my trouble 
resembles my wonder you can let me be dis- 
satisfied. I should never have learnt any of these 
fine things from you ; and, to say truth, I know 
not whether I shall from anybody else, if to learn 
them be to understand them. Pray what is meant 
by zvellness and unwellness ; and why is to some 
extreme better than to some extremity f I believe 
I shall live here till there is quite a new language 
spoke where you are, and shall come out like one 
of the Seven Sleepers, a creature of another age. 
But 'tis no matter so you understand me, though 
nobody else do, when I say how much I am 

Your faithful. 

Letter 29. 

Sir, — I can give you leave to doubt anything 
but my kindness, though I can assure you I spake 



Life at Chicksands. 141 

as I meant when I said I had not the vanity to 
believe I deserv'd yours, for I am not certain 
whether 'tis possible for anybody to deserve that 
another should love them above themselves, 
though I am certain many may deserve it more 
than me. But not to dispute this with you, let 
me tell you that I am thus far of your opinion, 
that upon some natures nothing is so powerful as 
kindness, and that I should give that to yours 
which all the merit in the world besides would 
not draw from me. I spake as if I had not done 
so already ; but you may choose whether you will 
believe me or not, for, to say truth, I do not much 
believe myself in that point. No, all the kindness 
I have or ever had is yours ; nor shall I ever repent 
it so, unless you shall ever repent yours. Without 
telling you what the inconveniences of your coming 
hither are, you may believe they are considerable, 
or else I should not deny you or myself the 
happiness of seeing one another ; and if you dare 
trust me where I am equally concerned with you, 
I shall take hold of the first opportunity that may 
either admit you here or bring me nearer you. 
Sure you took somebody else for my cousin 
Peters ? I can never believe her beauty able to 
smite anybody. I saw her when I was last in 
town, but she appear'd wholly the same to me, 
she was at St. Malo, with all her innocent orood 

o 

nature too, and asked for you so kindly, that I am 
sure she cannot have forgot you ; nor do I think 



142 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

she has so much address as to do it merely in 
compliment to me. No, you are mistaken certainly ; 
what should she do amongst all that company, 
unless she be towards a wedding ? She has been 
kept at home, poor soul, and suffer'd so much of 
purgatory in this world that she needs not fear it 
in the next ; and yet she is as merry as ever she 
was, which perhaps might make her look young, 
but that she laughs a little too much, and that 
will bring wrinkles, they say. Oh, me ! now I talk 
of laughing, it makes me think of poor Jane. I 
had a letter from her the other day ; she desired 
me to present her humble service to her master, — 
she did mean you, sure, for she named everybody 
else that she owes any service to, — and bid me 
say that she would keep her word with him. God 
knows what you have agreed on together. She 
tells me she shall stay long enough there to hear 
from me once more, and then she is resolved to 
come away. 

Here is a seal, which pray give Walker to set 
for me very handsomely, and not of any of those 
fashions he made my others, but of something 
that may differ from the rest. 'Tis a plain head, 
but not ill cut, I think. My eldest brother is now 
here, and we expect my youngest shortly, and 
then we shall be altogether, which I do not think 
we ever were twice in our lives. My niece is still 
with me, but her father threatens to fetch her 
away. If I can keep her to Michaelmas I may 



Life at Chicksands. 143 

perhaps bring her up to town myself, and take 
that occasion of seeing you ; but I have no other 
business that is worth my taking a journey, for I 
have had another summons from my aunt, and I 
protest I am afraid I shall be in rebellion there ; 
but 'tis not to be helped. The widow writes me 
word, too, that I must expect her here about a 
month hence ; and I find that I shall want no 
company, but only that which I would have, and 
for which I could willingly spare all the rest. 
Will it be ever thus ? I am afraid it will. There 
has been complaints made on me already to my 
eldest brother (only in general, or at least he takes 
notice of no more), what offers I refuse, and what 
a strange humour has possessed me of being deaf 
to the advice of all my friends. I find I am to be 
baited by them all by turns. They weary them- 
selves, and me too, to very little purpose, for to 
my thinking they talk the most impertinently that 
ever people did ; and I believe they are not in my 
debt, but think the same of me. Sometimes I tell 
them I will not marry, and then they laugh at 
me ; sometimes I say, " Not yet," and they laugh 
more, and would make me believe I shall be old 
within this twelvemonth. I tell them I shall be 
wiser then. They say 'twill be to no purpose. 
Sometimes we are in earnest and sometimes in 
jest, but always saying something since my 
brother Henry found his tongue again. If you 
were with me I could make sport of all this ; but 



144 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

"patience is my penance" is somebody's motto, 

and I think it must be mine. 

I am your. 

Letter 30. — Here is Lord Lisle's embassage discussed 
again ! We know that in the end it comes to nothing ; 
Whitelocke going, but without Temple. The statute 
commanding the marriage ceremony to be conducted 
before Justices of the Peace was passed in August 1653 ; 
it is to some extent by such references as these that the 
letters have been dated and grouped. The Marriage 
Act of 1653, with the other statutes of this period, have 
been erased from the Statute Book ; but a draft of it in 
Somers' Tracts remains to us for reference. It contained 
provisions for the names of those who intended being 
joined together in holy matrimony to be posted, with 
certain other particulars, upon the door of the common 
meeting-house, commonly called the parish church or 
chapel ; and after the space of three weeks the parties, 
with two witnesses, might go before a magistrate, who, 
having satisfied himself, by means of examining witnesses 
on oath or otherwise, that all the preliminaries com- 
manded by the Act had been properly fulfilled, further 
superintended the proceedings to perfect the said 
intended marriage as follows : — The man taking the 
woman by the hand pronounced these words, " I, A. B., 
do hereby in the presence of God take thee C. D. to my 
wedded wife, and do also in the presence of God, and 
before these witnesses, promise Lo be unto thee a loving 
and faithful husband." Then the woman in similar formula 
promised to be a " loving, faithful, and obedient wife," 
and the magistrate pronounced the parties to be man 
and wife. This ceremony, and this only, was to be a 
legal marriage. It is probable that parties might and 



Life at C kicks ands. 145 

did add a voluntary religious rite to this compulsory 
civil ceremony, as is done at this day in many foreign 
countries. 

Sir, — You cannot imagine how I was surpris'd 
to find a letter that began " Dear brother ; " I 
thought sure it could not belong at all to me, and 
was afraid I had lost one by it ; that you intended 
me another, and in your haste had mistook this 
for that. Therefore, till I found the permission 
you gave me, I had laid it by with a resolution 
not to read it, but to send it again. If I had done 
so, I had missed a great deal of satisfaction which 
I received from it. In earnest, I cannot tell you 
how kindly I take all the obliging things you say 
in it of me ; nor how pleased I should be (for 
your sake) if I were able to make good the 
character you give me to your brother, and that 
I did not owe a great part of it wholly to your 
friendship for me. I dare call nothing on't my 
own but faithfulness ; that I may boast of with 
truth and modesty, since 'tis but a simple virtue ; 
and though some are without it, yet 'tis so 
absolutely necessary, that nobody wanting it 
can be worthy of any esteem. I see you speak 
well of me to other people, though you complain 
always to me. I know not how to believe I 
should misuse your heart as you pretend ; I never 
had any quarrel to it, and since our friendship it 
has been dear to me as my own. 'Tis rather, 
sure, that you have a mind to try another, than 

K 



146 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

that any dislike of yours makes you turn it over 
to me ; but be it as it will, I am contented to 
stand to the loss, and perhaps when you have 
changed you will find so little difference that 
you'll be calling for your own again. Do but 
assure me that I shall find you almost as merry 
as my Lady Anne Wentworth is always, and 
nothing shall fright me from my purpose of seeing 
you as soon as I can with any conveniency. I 
would not have you insensible of our misfortunes, 
but I would not either that you should revenge 
them on yourself; no, that shows a want of 
constancy (which you will hardly yield to be your 
fault) ; but 'tis certain that there was never any- 
thing more mistaken than the Roman courage, 
when they killed themselves to avoid misfortunes 
that were infinitely worse than death. You con- 
fess 'tis an age since our story began, as is not fit 
for me to own. Is it not likely, then, that if my 
face had ever been good, it might be altered since 
then ; or is it as unfit for me to own the change 
as the time that makes it ? Be it as you please, 
I am not enough concerned in't to dispute it with 
you ; for, trust me, if you would not have my face 
better, I am satisfied it should be as it is ; since if 
ever I wished it otherwise, 'twas for your sake. 

I know not how I stumbled upon a news-book 
this week, and, for want of something else to do, 
read it ; it mentions my Lord Lisle's embassage 
again. Is there any such thing towards ? I met 



Life at Chick sands. 147 

with somebody else too in't that may concern 
anybody that has a mind to marry ; 'tis a new 
form for it, that, sure, will fright the country people 
extremely, for they apprehend nothing like going 
before a Justice ; they say no other marriage shall 
stand good in law. In conscience, I believe the 
old one is the better ; and for my part I am 
resolved to stay till that comes in fashion again. 

Can your father have so perfectly forgiven 
already the injury I did him (since you will not 
allow it to be any to you), in hindering you of 
Mrs. Chambers, as to remember me with kind- 
ness ? 'Tis most certain that I am obliged to 
him, and, in earnest, if I could hope it might ever 
be in my power to serve him I would promise 
something for myself. But is it not true, too, that 
you have represented me to him rather as you 
imagine me than as I am ; and have you not given 
him an expectation that I shall never be able to 
satisfy ? If you have, I can forgive you, because 
I know you meant well in't ; but I have known 
some women that have commended others merely 
out of spite, and if I were malicious enough to envy 
anybody's beauty, I would cry it up to all that 
had not seen them ; there's no such way to make 
anybody appear less handsome than they are. 

You must not forget that you are some letters 
in my debt, besides the answer to this. If there 
were not conveniences of sending, I should per- 
secute you strangely. And yet you cannot wonder 



148 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

at it ; the constant desire I have to hear from you, 
and the satisfaction your letters give me, would 
oblisre one that has less time to write often. But 
yet I know what 'tis to be in the town. I could 
never write a letter from thence in my life of 
above a dozen lines ; and though I see as little 
company as anybody that comes there, yet I 
always met with something or other that kept me 
idle. Therefore I can excuse it, though you do 
not exactly pay all that you owe, upon condition 
you shall tell me when I see you all that you 
should have writ if you had had time, and all that 
you can imagine to say to a person that is 

Your faithful friend. 

Letter 31. — Dorothy is in mourning for her youngest 
brother, Robert, who died about this time. As she does 
not mention his death to Temple, we may take it that 
he was, though her brother, practically a stranger to her, 
living away from Chicksands, and rarely visiting her. 

General Monk's brother, to whom Dorothy refers, was 
Mr. Nicholas Monk, vicar of Kelkhampton, in Cornwall. 
General Monk's misfortune is no less a calamity than 
his marriage. The following extract from Guizot's Life 
of Monk will fully explain the allusion : " The return of 
the new admiral [Monk] was marked by a domestic 
event which was not without its influence on his public 
conduct and reputation. Unrefined tastes, and that 
need of repose in his private life which usually accom- 
panies activity in public affairs, had consigned him to 
the dominion of a woman of low character, destitute 
even of the charms which seduce, and whose manners 



Life at Chicksands. 149 

did not belie the rumour which gave her for extraction 
a market stall, or even, according to some, a much less 
respectable profession. She had lived for some time 
past with Monk, and united to the influence of habit an 
impetuosity of will and words difficult to be resisted by 
the tranquil apathy of her lover. It is asserted that she 
had managed, as long since as 1649, to force him to a 
marriage ; but this marriage was most certainly not 
declared until 1653." M. Guizot then quotes a letter, 
dated September 19, 1653, announcing the news of 
General Monk's marriage, and this would about corre- 
spond with the presumed date of Dorothy's letter. 
Greenwich Palace was probably occupied by Monk at 
this time, and Dorothy meant to say that Ann Clarges 
would be as much at home in Greenwich Palace as, say, 
the Lord Protector's wife at Whitehall. 

Sir, — It was, sure, a less fault in me to make 
a scruple of reading your letter to your brother, 
which in all likelihood I could not be concerned 
in, than for you to condemn the freedom you 
take of giving me directions in a thing where we 
are equally concerned. Therefore, if I forgive 
you this, you may justly forgive me t'other ; and 
upon these terms we are friends again, are we 
not? No, stay! I have another fault to chide 
you for. You doubted whether you had not writ 
too much, and whether I could have the patience 
to read it or not. Why do you dissemble so 
abominably; you cannot think these things ? How 
I should love that plain-heartedness you speak of, 
if you would use it; nothing is civil but that 



150 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

amongst friends. Your kind sister ought to chide 
you, too, for not writing to her, unless you have 
been with her to excuse it. I hope you have ; 
and pray take some time to make her one visit 
from me, and carry my humble service with you, 
and tell her that 'tis not my fault that you are no 
better. I do not think I shall see the town 
before Michaelmas, therefore you may make what 
sallies you please. I am tied here to expect my 
brother Peyton, and then possibly we may go up 
together, for I should be at home again before 
the term. Then I may show you my niece ; and 
you may confess that I am a kind aunt to desire 
her company, since the disadvantage of our being 
together will lie wholly upon me. But I must 
make it my bargain, that if I come you will not 
be frighted to see me; you think, I'll warrant, 
you have courage enough to endure a worse 
sight. You may be deceived, you never saw me 
in mourning yet ; nobody that has will e'er desire 
to do it again, for their own sakes as well as mine. 
Oh, 'tis a most dismal dress, — I have not dared 
to look in the glass since I wore it ; and certainly 
if it did so ill with other people as it does with 
me, it would never be worn. 

You told me of writing to your father, but you 
did not say whether you had heard from him, or 
how he did. May not I ask it ? Is it possible 
that he saw me ? Where were my eyes that I 
did not see him, for I believe I should have 



Life at Chicksands. 151 

guessed at least that 'twas he if I had ? They 
say you are very like him ; but 'tis no wonder 
neither that I did not see him, for I saw not you 
when I met you there. 'Tis a place I look upon 
nobody in ; and it was reproached to me by a 
kinsman, but a little before you came to me, that 
he had followed me to half a dozen shops to see 
when I would take notice of him, and was at last 
going away with a belief 'twas not I, because I 
did not seem to know him. Other people make 
it so much their business to gape, that I'll swear 
they put me so out of countenance I dare not 
look up for my life. 

I am sorry for General Monk's misfortunes, 
because you say he is your friend ; but otherwise 
she will suit well enough with the rest of the 
great ladies of the times, and become Greenwich 
as well as some others do the rest of the King's 
houses. If I am not mistaken, that Monk has a 
brother lives in Cornwall ; an honest gentleman, 
I have heard, and one that was a great acquaint- 
ance of a brother of mine who was killed there 
during the war, and so much his friend that upon 
his death he put himself and his family into 
mourning for him, which is not usual, I think, 
where there is no relation of kindred. 

I will take order that my letters shall be left 
with Jones, and yours called for there. As long 
as your last was, I read it over thrice in less than 
an hour, though, to say truth, I had skipped some 



152 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

on't the last time. I could not read my own 
confession so often. Love is a terrible word, and 
I should blush to death if anything but a letter 
accused me on't. Pray be merciful, and let it run 
friendship in my next charge. My Lady sends 
me word she has received those parts of Cyrus 
I lent you. Here is another for you which, when 
you have read, you know how to dispose. There 
are four pretty stories in it, " L ' Aviant Absented 
" LAmant 11011 Aimd" " LAmant Jaloux" et 
" L'Amant dont La Maitresse est mort." Tell 
me which you have most compassion for when 
you have read what every one says for himself. 
Perhaps you will not think it so easy to decide 
which is the most unhappy, as you may think by 
the titles their stories bear. Only let me desire 
you not to pity the jealous one, for I remember 
I could do nothing but laugh at him as one that 
sought his own vexation. This, and the little 
journeys (you say) you are to make, will enter- 
tain you till I come ; which, sure, will be as soon 
as possible I can, since 'tis equally desired by you 
and your faithful. 



Letter 32. — Things being more settled in that part of 
the world, Sir John Temple is returning to Ireland, 
where he intends taking his seat as Master of the Rolls 
once again. Temple joins his father soon after this, and 
stays in Ireland a few months. 

Lady Ormond was the wife of the first Duke of 



Life at Chicksands. 153 

Ormond. She had obtained her pass to go over to 
Ireland on August 24th, 1653. The Ormonds had 
indeed been in great straits for want of money, and in 
August 1652 Lady Ormond had come over from Caen, 
where they were then living, to endeavour to claim 
Cromwell's promise of reserving to her that portion of 
their estate which had been her inheritance. After 
great delays she obtained ^500, and a grant of 
;£2000 per annum out of their Irish lands " lying most 
conveniently to Dunmore House." It must have 
been this matter that Dorothy had heard of when 
she questions "whether she will get it when she comes 
there." 

Francis Annesley, Lord Valentia, belonged to an 
ancient Nottinghamshire family, though he himself was 
born in Newport, Buckinghamshire. Of his daughter's 
marriage I can find nothing. Lord Valentia was at this 
time Secretary of State at Dublin. 

Sir Justinian has at length found a second wife. Her 
name is Vere, and she is the daughter of Lord Leigh 
of Stoneleigh. Thus do Dorothy's suitors, one by one, 
recover and cease to lament her obduracy. When she 
declares that she would rather have chosen a chain to 
lead her apes in than marry Sir Justinian, she refers to 
an old superstition as to the ultimate fate of spinsters — 

Women, dying maids, lead apes in hell, 

runs the verse of an old pUy, and that is the whole 
superstition, the origin of which seems somewhat inex- 
plicable. The phrase is thrice used by Shakespeare, 
and constantly occurs in the old burlesques and 
comedies ; in one instance, in a comedy entitled 
"Love's Convert" (165 1), it is altered to "lead an ape 
in heaven? Many will remember the fate of "The 



154 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

young Mary Anne " in the famous Ingoldsby legend 
" Bloudie Jacke : "— 

So they say she is now leading apes — 

Bloudie Jack, 
And mends bachelors' smallclothes below. 

No learned editor that I am acquainted with has 
been able to suggest an explanation of this curious 
expression. 

Sir, — All my quarrels to you are kind ones, for, 
sure, 'tis alike impossible for me to be angry as 
for you to give me the occasion ; therefore, when 
I chide (unless it be that you are not careful 
enough of yourself, and hazard too much a health 
that I am more concerned in than my own), you 
need not study much for excuses, I can easily 
forgive you anything but want of kindness. The 
judgment you have made of the four lovers I 
recommended to you does so perfectly agree with 
what I think of them, that I hope it will not alter 
when you have read their stories. LA mant Absent 
has (in my opinion) a mistress so much beyond 
any of the rest, that to be in danger of losing her 
is more than to have lost the others ; LAmant 
non Aimd was an ass, under favour (notwithstand- 
the Princesse Cleobuline s letter) ; his mistress had 
caprices that would have suited better with our 
Amant Jaloux than with anybody else ; and the 
Prince Artibie was much to blame that he out- 
lived his belle Leontine. But if you have met 
with the beginning of the story of Amestris and 



Life at Ckicksands. 155 

Aglatides, you will find the rest of it in this part 
I send you now; and 'tis, to me, one of the 
prettiest I have read, and the most natural. 
They say the gentleman that writes this romance 
has a sister that lives with him, a maid, and she 
furnishes him with all the little stories that come 
between, so that he only contrives the main 
design ; and when he wants something to en- 
tertain his company withal, he calls to her for 
it. She has an excellent fancy, sure, and a great 
wit; but, I am sorry to tell it you, they say 'tis 
the most ill-favoured creature that ever was born. 
And 'tis often so ; how seldom do we see a person 
excellent in anything but they have some great 
defect with it that pulls them low enough to make 
them equal with other people ; and there is justice 
in't. Those that have fortunes have nothing 
else, and those that want it deserve to have it. 
That's but small comfort, though, you'll say ; 'tis 
confessed, but there is no such thing as perfect 
happiness in this world, those that have come 
the nearest it had many things to wish ; and, 
— bless me, whither am I going ? Sure, 'tis the 
death's head I see stand before me puts me into 
this grave discourse (pray do not think I meant 
that for a conceit neither) ; how idly have I spent 
two sides of my paper, and am afraid, besides, 
I shall not have time to write two more. There- 
fore I'll make haste to tell you that my friendship 
for you makes me concerned in all your relations ; 



156 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

that I have a great respect for Sir John, merely 
as he is your father, and that 'tis much increased 
by his kindness to you ; that he has all my 
prayers and wishes for his safety ; and that you 
will oblige me in letting me know when you hear 
any good news from him. He has met with a 
great deal of good company, I believe. My Lady 
Ormond, I am told, is waiting for a passage, and 
divers others ; but this wind (if I am not mis- 
taken) is not good for them. In earnest, 'tis a 
most sad thing that a person of her quality should 
be reduced to such a fortune as she has lived 
upon these late years, and that she should lose 
that which she brought, as well as that which 
was her husband's. Yet, I hear, she has now got 
some of her own land in Ireland granted her ; but 
whether she will get it when she comes there is, I 
think, a question. 

We have a lady new come into this country 
that I pity, too, extremely. She is one of my 
Lord of Valentia's daughters, and has married 
an old fellow that is some threescore and ten, 
who has a house that is fitter for the hogs than 
for her, and a fortune that will not at all recom- 
pense the least of these inconveniences. Ah ! 'tis 
most certain I should have chosen a handsome 
chain to lead my apes in before such a husband ; 
but marrying and hanging go by destiny, they 
say. It was not mine, it seems, to have an 
emperor; the spiteful man, merely to vex me, 



Life at Chicksands. 157 

has gone and married my countrywoman, my 
Lord Lee's daughter. What a multitude of 
willow garlands I shall weave before I die; I 
think I had best make them into faggots this 
cold weather, the flame they would make in a 
chimney would be of more use to me than that 
which was in the hearts of all those that gave 
them me, and would last as long. I did not 
think I should have got thus far. I have been 
so persecuted with visits all this week I have had 
no time to despatch anything of business, so that 
now I have done this I have forty letters more 
to write; how much rather would I have them 
all to you than to anybody else ; or, rather, how 
much better would it be if there needed none to 
you, and that I could tell you without writing 
how much I am 

Yours. 

Letter 33. — Sir Thomas Peyton, we must remember, 
had married Dorothy's eldest sister; she died many 
years ago, and Sir Thomas married again, in 1648, one 
Dame Cicely Swan, a widow, whose character Dorothy 
gives us. 

Lord Monmouth was the eldest son of the Earl of 
Monmouth, and was born in 1596. He was educated 
at Exeter College, Oxford. His literary work was, at 
least, copious, and included some historical writing, as 
well as the translations mentioned by Dorothy. He 
published, among other things, An Historical Relatio?i 
of the United Provinces, a History of the Wars in 
Flanders, and a History of Venice. 



158 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

Sir John Suckling, in the following doggerel, hails our 
noble author with a flunkey's enthusiasm, — 

It is so rare and new a thing to see 
Aught that belongs to young nobility 
In print, but their own clothes, that we must praise 
You, as we would do those first show the ways 
To arts or to new worlds. 

In such strain writes the author of Why so pale and 
wan, fond lover ? and both the circumstance and the 
doggerel should be very instructive to the snobologist. 

The literary work of Lord Broghill is not unknown to 
fame, and Mr. Waller's verse is still read by us ; but I 
have never seen a history of the Civil Wars from Mr. 
Waller's pen, and cannot find that he ever published one. 

Prazimene and Polexander are two romances trans- 
lated from the French, — the former, a neat little 
duodecimo ; the latter, a huge folio of more than three 
hundred and fifty closely-printed pages. The title-page 
of Prazimene, a very good example of its kind, runs 
as follows: — "Two delightful Novels, or the Unlucky 
Fair One ; being the Amours of Milistrate and Prazi- 
mene, Illustrated with variety of Chance and Fortune. 
Translated from the French by a Person of Quality. 
London. Sold by Eben Tracy, at the Three Bibles, 
on London Bridge." Polexander was "done into 
English by William Browne, Gent," for the benefit 
and behoof of the Earl of Pembroke. 

William Fiennes, Lord Say and Sele, was one of the 
chiefs of the Independent party, a Republican, and one 
of the first to bear arms against the King. He had, for 
that day, extravagant notions of civil liberty, and on the 
disappointment of his hopes, he appears to have retired 
to the Isle of Lundy, on the coast of Devon, and con- 
tinued a voluntary prisoner there until Cromwell's death. 



Life at Chicksands. 159 

After the Restoration he was made Lord Chamberlain 
of the Household, and Lord Privy Seal. He published 
some political tracts, none of which are now in existence ; 
and Anthony Wood mentions having seen other things 
of his, among which, maybe, was the romance that 
Dorothy had heard of, but which is lost to us. 

Sir, — Pray, let not the apprehension that others 
say fine things to me make your letters at all the 
shorter ; for, if it were so, I should not think they 
did, and so long you are safe. My brother 
Peyton does, indeed, sometimes send me letters 
that may be excellent for aught I know, and the 
more likely because I do not understand them ; 
but I may say to you (as to a friend) I do not 
like them, and have wondered that my sister 
(who, I may tell you too, and you will not think 
it vanity in me, had a great deal of wit, and 
was thought to write as well as most women in 
England) never persuaded him to alter his style, 
and make it a little more intelligible. He is an 
honest gentleman, in earnest, has understanding 
enough, and was an excellent husband to two 
very different wives, as two good ones could be. 
My sister was a melancholy, retired woman, and, 
besides the company of her husband and her 
books, never sought any, but could have spent a 
life much longer than hers was in looking to her 
house and her children. This lady is of a free, 
jolly humour, loves cards and company, and is 
never more pleased than when she sees a great 



160 Letters from DorotJiy Osborne. 

many others that are so too. Now, with both 

these he so perfectly complied that 'tis hard to 

judge which humour he is more inclined to in 

himself; perhaps to neither, which makes it so 

much the more strange. His kindness to his 

first wife may give him an esteem for her sister ; 

but he was too much smitten with this lady to 

think of marrying anybody else, and, seriously, I 

could not blame him, for she had, and has yet, 

great loveliness in her ; she was very handsome, 

and is very good (one may read it in her face at 

first sight). A woman that is hugely civil to all 

people, and takes as generally as anybody that 

I know, but not more than my cousin Molle's 

letters do, but which, yet, you do not like, you 

say, nor I neither, I'll swear; and if it be 

ignorance in us both we'll forgive it one another. 

In my opinion these great scholars are not the 

best writers (of letters, I mean) ; of books, perhaps 

they are. I never had, I think, but one letter 

from Sir Justinian, but 'twas worth twenty of 

anybody's else to make me sport. It was the 

most sublime nonsense that in my life I ever 

read ; and yet, I believe, he descended as low as 

he could to come near my weak understanding. 

'Twill be no compliment after this to say I like 

your letters in themselves ; not as they come from 

one that is not indifferent to me, but, seriously, I 

do. All letters, methinks, should be free and 

easy as one's discourse ; not studied as an oration, 



Life at Chicksands. 161 

nor made up of hard words like a charm. 'Tis 
an admirable thing to see how some people will 
labour to find out terms that may obscure a plain 
sense. Like a gentleman I know, who would 
never say " the weather grew cold," but that 
" winter began to salute us." I have no patience 
for such coxcombs, and cannot blame an old uncle 
of mine that threw the standish at his man's head 
because he writ a letter for him where, instead of 
saying (as his master bid him), "that he would 
have writ himself, but he had the gout in his 
hand," he said, " that the gout in his hand would 
not permit him to put pen to paper." The fellow 
thought he had mended it mightily, and that putting 
pen to paper was much better than plain writing. 

I have no patience neither for these trans- 
lations of romances. I met with Polexander and 
LHllnstre Bassa both so disguised that I, who am 
their old acquaintance, hardly know them; besides 
that, they were still so much French in words and 
phrases that 'twas impossible for one that under- 
stands not French to make anything of them. 
If poor Prazimene be in the same dress, I would 
not see her for the world. She has suffered 
enough besides. I never saw but four tomes of 
her, and was told the gentleman that writ her 
story died when those were finished. I was very 
sorry for it, I remember, for I liked so far as I 
had seen of it extremely. Is it not my good 
Lord of Monmouth, or some such honourable 

L 



1 62 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

personage, that presents her to the English 
ladies ? I have heard many people wonder how 
he spends his estate. I believe he undoes him- 
self with printing his translations. Nobody else 
will undergo the charge, because they never hope 
to sell enough of them to pay themselves withal. 
I was looking t'other day in a book of his where 
he translates Pipero as piper, and twenty words 
more that are as false as this. 

My Lord Broghill, sure, will give us something 
worth the reading. My Lord Saye, I am told, 
has writ a romance since his retirement in the 
Isle of Lundy, and Mr. Waller, they say, is 
making one of our wars, which, if he does not 
mingle with a great deal of pleasing fiction, cannot 
be very diverting, sure, the subject is so sad. 

But all this is nothing to my coming to town, 
you'll say. 'Tis confest; and that I was willing 
as long as I could to avoid saying anything when 
I had nothing to say worth your knowing. I am 
still obliged to wait my brother Peyton and his 
lady coming. I had a letter from him this week, 
which I will send you, that you may see what 
hopes he gives. As little room as I have left, 
too, I must tell you what a present I had made 
me to-day. Two of the finest young Irish grey- 
hounds that ere I saw ; a gentleman that serves 
the General sent them me. They are newly 
come over, and sent for by Henry Cromwell, he 
tells me, but not how he got them for me. 



Life at Chicksands. 163 

However, I am glad I have them, and much the 
more becauses it dispenses with a very unfit 
employment that your father, out of his kindness 
to you and his civility to me, was content to take 
upon him. 

Letter 34. 

Sir, — Jane was so unlucky as to come out of 
town before your return, but she tells me she left 
my letter with Nan Stacy for you. I was in hope 
she would have brought me one from you ; and 
because she did not I was resolv'd to punish her, 
and kept her up till one o'clock telling me all her 
stories. Sure, if there be any truth in the old 
observation, your cheeks glowed notably ; and 'tis 
most certain that if I were with you, I should 
chide notably. What do you mean to be so melan- 
choly ? By her report your humour is grown 
insupportable. I can allow it not to be altogether 
what she says, and yet it may be very ill too ; but 
if you loved me you would not give yourself over 
to that which will infallibly kill you, if it continue. 
I know too well that our fortunes have ofiven us 
occasion enough to complain and to be weary of 
her tyranny ; but, alas ! would it be better if I had 
lost you or you me ; unless we were sure to die 
both together, 'twould but increase our misery, 
and add to that which is more already than we 
can well tell how to bear. You are more cruel 
than she regarding a life that's dearer to me than 



164 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

that of the whole world besides, and which makes 
all the happiness I have or ever shall be capable 
of. Therefore, by all our friendship I conjure 
you and, by the power you have given me, com- 
mand you, to preserve yourself with the same 
care that you would have me live. 'Tis all the 
obedience I require of you, and will be the 
greatest testimony you can give me of your faith. 
When you have promised me this, 'tis not im- 
possible that I may promise you shall see me 
shortly ; though my brother Peyton (who says he 
will come down to fetch his daughter) hinders me 
from making the journey in compliment to her. 
Yet I shall perhaps find business enough to carry 
me up to town. 'Tis all the service I expect from 
two girls whose friends have given me leave to 
provide for, that some order I must take for the 
disposal of them may serve for my pretence to 
see you ; but then I must find you pleased and in 
good humour, merry as you were wont to be when 
we first met, if you will not have me show that 
I am nothing akin to my cousin Osborne's lady. 

But what an age 'tis since we first met, and how 
great a change it has wrought in both of us ; if 
there had been as great a one in my face, it could 
be either very handsome or very ugly. For 
God's sake, when we meet, let us design one day 
to remember old stories in, to ask one another by 
what degrees our friendship grew to this height 
'tis at. In earnest, I am lost sometimes with 



Life at Chicksands. 165 

thinking on't ; and though I can never repent the 
share you have in my heart, I know not whether 
I gave it you willingly or not at first. No, to 
speak ingenuously, I think you got an interest 
there a good while before I thought you had any, 
and it grew so insensibly, and yet so fast, that all 
the traverses it has met with since has served 
rather to discover it to me than at all to hinder 
it. By this confession you will see I am past all 
disguise with you, and that you have reason to be 
satisfied with knowing as much of my heart as I 
do myself. Will the kindness of this letter excuse 
the shortness on't ? For I have twenty more, I 
think, to write, and the hopes I had of receiving 
one from you last night kept me from writing this 
when I had more time ; or if all this will not 
satisfy, make your own conditions, so you do not 
return it me by the shortness of yours. Your 
servant kisses your hands, and I am 

Your faithful. 

Letter 35. — This is written on the back of a letter 
of Sir Thomas Peyton to Dorothy, and is probably 
a postscript to Letter 34. Sir Thomas's letter is a good 
example of the stilted letter -writing in vogue at that 
time, which Dorothy tells us was so much admired. 
The affairs that are troubling him are legal matters in 
connection with his brother-in-law Henry Oxenden's 
estate. There is a multitude of letters in the MSS. in 
the British Museum referring to this business ; but we 
are not greatly concerned with Oxenden's financial 



1 66 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

difficulties. Sir Edward Hales was a gentleman of noble 
family in Kent. There is one of the same name who in 
1688 declares himself openly to be a Papist, and is tried 
under the Test Act. He is concerned in the same year 
in the escape of King James, providing him with a 
fishing- boat to carry him into France. This is in all 
probability the Sir Edward Hales referred to by Sir 
Thomas Peyton, unless it be a son of the same name. 
Here is the letter : — 



" Good Sister, — I am very sorry to hear the 
loss of our good brother, whose short time gives 
us a sad example of our frail condition. But I 
will not say the loss, knowing whom I write to, 
whose religion and wisdom is a present stay to 
support in all worldly accidents. 

"'Tis long since we resolved to have given you 
a visit, and have relieved you of my daughter. 
But I have had the following of a most laborious 
affair, which hath cost me the travelling, though 
in our own country style, fifty . . . ; and I have 
been less at home than elsewhere ever since I 
came from London ; which hath vext me the more 
in regard I have been detained from the desire I 
had of being with you before this time. Such 
entertainment, however, must all those have that 
have to do with such a purse-proud and wilful per- 
son as Sir Edward Hales. This next week being 
Michaelmas week, we shall end all and I be at 
liberty, I hope, to consider my own contentments. 
In the meantime I know not what excuses to 



Life at Chick sands. 167 

make for the trouble I have put you to already, 
of which I grow to be ashamed ; and I should 
much more be so if I did not know you to be as 
good as you are fair. In both which regards I 
have a great honour to be esteemed, 
" My good sister, 
" Your faithful brother and servant, 
" Thomas Peyton. 
" Knowlton, Sept. 22, 1653." 

On the other side of Sir T. Peyton s Letter. 

Nothing that is paper can 'scape me when I 
have time to write, and 'tis to you. But that I 
am not willing to excite your envy, I would tell 
you how many letters I have despatched since I 
ended yours ; and if I could show them you 'twould 
be a certain cure for it, for they are all very short 
ones, and most of them merely compliments, 
which I am sure you care not for. 

I had forgot in my other to tell you what Jane 
requires for the satisfaction of what you confess 
you owe her. You must promise her to be merry, 
and not to take cold when you are at the tennis 
court, for there she hears you are found. 

Because you mention my Lord Broghill and 
his wit, I have sent you some of his verses. 
My brother urged them against me one day in 
a dispute, where he would needs make me confess 
that no passion could be long lived, and that such 
as were most in love forgot that ever they had 



1 68 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

been so within a twelvemonth after they were 
married ; and, in earnest, the want of examples to 
bring for the contrary puzzled me a little, so that 
I was fain to bring out those pitiful verses of my 
Lord Biron to his wife, which was so poor an argu- 
ment that I was e'en ashamed on't myself, and 
he quickly laughed me out of countenance with 
saying they were just such as a married man's 
flame would produce and a wife inspire. I send 
you a love letter, too; which, simple as you see, it 
was sent me in very good earnest, and by a person 
of quality, as I was told. If you read it when you 
go to bed, 'twill certainly make your sleep approved. 

I am yours. 

Letter 36. — My Lady Carlisle was, as Dorothy says, 
f an extraordinary person." She was the daughter of 
Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and at the age 
of eighteen, against her father's will and under somewhat 
romantic circumstances, married James Hay, Earl of 
Carlisle. Her sister married the Earl of Leicester, and 
she is therefore aunt to Lady Sunderland and Algernon 
Sydney. She was a favourite attendant of Queen 
Henrietta, and there are evil rumours connecting her 
name with that of Strafford. On Strafford's death, it 
is asserted that she transferred her affections to Pym, 
to whom she is said to have betrayed the secrets of the 
Court. There seems little doubt that it was she who 
gave notice to Pym of the King's coming to the House 
to seize the five members. In 1648 she appears, how- 
ever, to have assisted the Royalists with money for the 
purpose of raising a fleet to attack England, and at the 



Life at Chicksands. 169 

Restoration she was received at Court, and employed 
herself in intriguing for the return of Queen Henrietta 
to England, which was opposed at the time by Clarendon 
and others. Soon after this, and in the year of the 
Restoration, she died suddenly. Poets of all grades, 
from Waller downwards, have sung of her beauty, viva- 
city, and wit ; and Sir Toby Matthew speaks of her as 
" too lofty and dignified to be capable of friendship, and 
having too great a heart to be susceptible of love," — 
an extravagance of compliment hardly satisfactory in 
this plain age. 

My Lord Paget, at whose house at Marlow Mr. Lely 
was staying, was a prominent loyalist both in camp and 
council chamber. He married Frances, the eldest 
daughter of the Earl of Holland, my Lady Diana's sister. 

Whether or not Dorothy really assisted young 
Sir Harry Yelverton in his suit for the hand of fair 
Lady Ruthin we cannot say, but they were undoubtedly 
married. Sir Harry Yelverton seems to have been a 
man of superior accomplishments and serious learning. 
He was at this time twenty years of age, and had been 
educated at St. Paul's School, London, and afterwards 
at Wadham College, Oxford, under the tutorship of 
Dr. Wilkins, Cromwell's brother-in-law, a learned and 
philosophical mathematician. He was admitted gentle- 
man commoner in 1650, and it is said "made great 
proficiency in several branches of learning, being as 
exact a Latin and Grecian as any in the university of 
his age or time." He succeeded to his father's title 
soon after coming of age, and took a leading part in the 
politics of the day, becoming Knight of the Shire of 
Northampton in the Restoration Parliament. He was 
a high Tory, and a great defender of the Church and its 
ejected ministers, one of whom, Dr. Thomas Morton, 



I/O Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

the learned theologian, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield, 
died in his house in 1659. He wrote a discourse on the 
" Truth and Reasonableness of the Religion delivered 
by Jesus Christ," a Preface to Dr. Morton's work on 
Episcopacy, and a vindication of the Church of England 
against the attacks of the famous Edward Bagshawe. 

In this letter Dorothy describes some husbands whom 
she could not marry. See what she expects in a lover ! 
Have we not here some local squires hit off to the life ? 
Could George Eliot herself have done more for us in 
like space ? 

Sir, — Why are you so sullen, and why am I 
the cause ? Can you believe that I do willingly 
defer my journey ? I know you do not. Why, 
then, should my absence now be less supportable 
to you than heretofore ? Nay, it shall not be 
long (if I can help it), and I shall break through 
all inconveniences rather than deny you anything 
that lies in my power to grant. But by your own 
rules, then, may I not expect the same from you ? 
Is it possible that all I have said cannot oblige 
you to a care of yourself? What a pleasant 
distinction you make when you say that 'tis not 
melancholy makes you do these things, but a 
careless forgetfulness. Did ever anybody forget 
themselves to that degree that was not melan- 
choly in extremity ? Good God ! how you are 
altered ; and what is it that has done it ? I have 
known you when of all the things in the world 
you would not have been taken for a discontent ; 
you were, as I thought, perfectly pleased with 



Life at Chicksands. 171 

your condition ; what has made it so much worse 
since ? I know nothing you have lost, and am 
sure you have gained a friend that is capable of 
the highest degree of friendship you can pro- 
pound, that has already given an entire heart for 
that which she received, and 'tis no more in her 
will than in her power ever to recall it or divide 
it ; if this be not enough to satisfy you, tell me 
what I can do more ? 

There are a great many ingredients must go 
to the making me happy in a husband. First, as 
my cousin Franklin says, our humours must 
agree ; and to do that he must have that kind of 
breeding that I have had, and used that kind of 
company. That is, he must not be so much a 
country gentleman as to understand nothing but 
hawks and dogs, and be fonder of either than his 
wife ; nor of the next sort of them whose aim 
reaches no further than to be Justice of the Peace, 
and once in his life High Sheriff, who reads no 
book but statutes, and studies nothing but how 
to make a speech interlarded with Latin that may 
amaze his disagreeing poor neighbours, and fright 
them rather than persuade them into quietness. 
He must not be a thing that began the world in 
a free school, was sent from thence to the univer- 
sity, and is at his furthest when he reaches the 
Inns of Court, has no acquaintance but those of 
his form in these places, speaks the French he 
has picked out of old laws, and admires nothing 



172 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

but the stories he has heard of the revels that 
were kept there before his time. He must not 
be a town gallant neither, that lives in a tavern 
and an ordinary, that cannot imagine how an hour 
should be spent without company unless it be 
in sleeping, that makes court to all the women he 
sees, thinks they believe him, and laughs and is 
laughed at equally. Nor a travelled Monsieur 
whose head is all feather inside and outside, that 
can talk of nothing but dances and duets, and has 
courage enough to wear slashes when every one 
else dies with cold to see him. He must not be 
a fool of no sort, nor peevish, nor ill-natured, nor 
proud, nor covetous; and to all this must be added, 
that he must love me and I him as much as we 
are capable of loving. Without all this, his 
fortune, though never so great, would not satisfy 
me ; and with it, a very moderate one would keep 
me from ever repenting my disposal. 

I have been as large and as particular in my 
descriptions as my cousin Molle is in his of 
Moor Park, — but that you know the place so 
well I would send it you, — nothing can come near 
his patience in writing it, but my reading on't. 
Would you had sent me your father's letter, it 
would not have been less welcome to me than to 
you ; and you may safely believe that I am equally 
concerned with you in anything. I should be 
pleased to see something of my Lady Carlisle's 
writing, because she is so extraordinary a person. 



Life at Chicksands. 173 

I have been thinking of sending you my picture 
till I could come myself; but a picture is but dull 
company, and that you need not ; besides, I 
cannot tell whether it be very like me or not, 
though 'tis the best I ever had drawn for me, and 
Mr. Lilly [Lely] will have it that he never took 
more pains to make a good one in his life, and 
that was it I think that spoiled it. He was con- 
demned for making the first he drew for me a 
little worse than I, and in making this better he 
has made it as unlike as t'other. He is now, 
I think, at my Lord Pagett's at Marloe [Marlow], 
where I am promised he shall draw a picture of 
my Lady for me, — she gives it me, she says, as 
the greatest testimony of her friendship to me, 
for by her own rule she is past the time of having 
pictures taken of her. After eighteen, she says, 
there is no face but decays apparently ; I would 
fain have had her excepted such as had never 
been beauties, for my comfort, but she would 
not. 

When you see your friend Mr. Heningham, 
you may tell him in his ear there is a willow 
garland coming towards him. He might have 
sped better in his suit if he had made court to 
me, as well as to my Lady Ruthin. She has 
been my wife this seven years, and whosoever 
pretends there must ask my leave. I have now 
given my consent that she shall marry a very 
pretty little gentleman, Sir Christopher Yelverton's 



174 Letters from Dorothy Osdome. 

son, and I think we shall have a wedding ere it 
be long. My Lady her mother, in great kindness, 
would have recommended Heningham to me, and 
told me in a compliment that I was fitter for him 
than her daughter, who was younger, and there- 
fore did not understand the world so well ; that 
she was certain if he knew me he would be 
extremely taken, for I would make just that kind 
of wife he looked for. I humbly thanked her, 
but said I was certain he would not make that 
kind of husband I looked for, — and so it went no 
farther. 

I expect my eldest brother here shortly, whose 
fortune is well mended by my other brother's 
death, so as if he were satisfied himself with what 
he has done, I know no reason why he might not 
be very happy ; but I am afraid he is not. I have 
not seen my sister since I knew she was so ; but, 
sure, she can have lost no beauty, for I never saw 
any that she had, but good black eyes, which 
cannot alter. He loves her, I think, at the 
ordinary rate of husbands, but not enough, I 
believe, to marry her so much to his disadvantage 
if it were to do again ; and that would kill me 
were I as she, for I could be infinitely better 
satisfied with a husband that had never loved me 
in hopes he might, than with one that began to 
love me less than he had done. 

I am yours. 



Life at Chicksands. 1 75 

Letter tf- 

Sir, — You say I abuse you ; and Jane says you 
abuse me when you say you are not melancholy : 
which is to be believed ? Neither, I think ; for I 
could not have said so positively (as it seems she 
did) that I should not be in town till my brother 
came back : he was not gone when she writ, nor 
is not yet ; and if my brother Peyton had come 
before his going, I had spoiled her prediction. 
But now it cannot be ; he goes on Monday or 
Tuesday at farthest. I hope you did truly with 
me, too, in saying that you are not melancholy 
(though she does not believe it). I am thought 
so, many times, when I am not at all guilty on't. 
How often do I sit in company a whole day, and 
when they are gone am not able to give an 
account of six words that was said, and many 
times could be so much better pleased with the 
entertainment my own thoughts give me, that 
'tis all I can do to be so civil as not to let them 
see they trouble me. This may be your disease. 
However, remember you have promised me to 
be careful of yourself, and that if I secure what 
you have entrusted me with, you will answer for 
the rest. Be this our bargain then ; and look 
that you give me as good an account of one as I 
shall give you of t'other. In earnest, I was 
strangely vexed to see myself forced to disappoint 
you so, and felt your trouble and my own too. 



i/6 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

How often I have wished myself with you, though 
but for a day, for an hour : I would have given all 
the time I am to spend here for it with all my heart. 
You could not but have laughed if you had 
seen me last night. My brother and Mr. Gibson 
were talking by the fire ; and I sat by, but as no 
part of the company. Amongst other things 
(which I did not at all mind), they fell into a 
discourse of flying ; and both agreed it was very 
possible to find out a way that people might fly 
like birds, and despatch their journeys : so I, that 
had not said a word all night, started up at that, 
and desired they would say a little more on't, for 
I had not marked the beginning ; but instead of 
that, they both fell into so violent a laughing, that 
I should appear so much concerned in such an 
art ; but they little knew of what use it might 
have been to me. Yet I saw you last night, but 
'twas in a dream ; and before I could say a word 
to you, or you to me, the disorder my joy to see 
you had put me into awakened me. Just now I 
was interrupted, too, and called away to entertain 
two dumb gentlemen ; — you may imagine whether 
I was pleased to leave my writing to you for their 
company ; — they have made such a tedious visit, 
too ; and I am so tired with making of signs and 
tokens for everything I had to say. Good God ! 
how do those that live with them always ? They 
are brothers ; and the eldest is a baronet, has 
a good estate, a wife and three or four children. 



Life at Chicksands. 177 

He was my servant heretofore, and comes to see 
me still for old love's sake ; but if he could have 
made me mistress of the world I could not have 
had him ; and yet I'll swear he has nothing to be 
disliked in him but his want of tongue, which in a 
woman miodit have been a virtue. 

I sent you a part of Cyrus last week, where 
you will meet with one Doralise in the story of 
Abradah and Panthee. The whole story is very 
good ; but the humour makes the best part of it. 
I am of her opinion in most things that she says 
in her character of " U homiest homme " that she 
is in search of, and her resolution of receiving 
no heart that had been offered to anybody else. 
Pray, tell me how you like her, and what fault 
you find in my Lady Carlisle's letter ? Methinks 
the hand and the style both show her a great 
person, and 'tis writ in the way that's now 
affected by all that pretend to wit and good 
breeding ; only, I am a little scandalized to con- 
fess that she uses that word faithful, — she that 
never knew how to be so in her life. 

I have sent you my picture because you wished 
for it ; but, pray, let it not presume to disturb my 
Lady Sunderland's. Put it in some corner where 
no eyes may find it out but yours, to whom it is 
only intended. 'Tis not a very good one, but the 
best I shall ever have drawn of me ; for, as my 
Lady says, my time for pictures is past, and there- 
fore I have always refused to part with this, 

M 



1 78 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

because I was sure the next would be a worse. 
There is a beauty in youth that every one has 
once in their lives ; and I remember my mother 
used to say there was never anybody (that was 
not deformed) but were handsome, to some 
reasonable degree, once between fourteen and 
twenty. It must hang with the light on the left 
hand of it ; and you may keep it if you please 
till I bring you the original. But then I must 
borrow it (for 'tis no more mine, if you like it), 
because my brother is often bringing people into 
my closet where it hangs, to show them other 
pictures that are there ; and if he miss this long 
thence, 'twould trouble his jealous head. 

You are not the first that has told me I knew 
better what quality I would not have in a husband 
than what I would ; but it was more pardonable 
in them. I thought you had understood better 
what kind of person I liked than anybody else 
could possibly have done, and therefore did not 
think it necessary to make you that description 
too. Those that I reckoned up were only such as 
I could not be persuaded to have upon no terms, 
though I had never seen such a person in my 
life as Mr. Temple : not but that all those may 
make very good husbands to some women \ but 
they are so different from my humour that 'tis not 
possible we should ever agree; for though it 
might be reasonably enough expected that I 
should conform mine to theirs (to my shame be 



Life at Chick sands. 179 

it spoken), I could never do it. And I have lived 
so long in the world, and so much at my own 
liberty, that whosoever has me must be content 
to take me as they find me, without hope of ever 
makinof me other than I am. I cannot so much 
as disguise my humour. When it was designed 
that I should have had Sir Jus., my brother 
used to tell me he was confident that, with all his 
wisdom, any woman that had wit and discretion 
might make an ass of him, and govern him as she 
pleased. I could not deny that possibly it might 
be so, but 'twas that I was sure I could never 
do ; and though 'tis likely I should have forced 
myself to so much compliance as was necessary 
for a reasonable wife, yet farther than that no 
design could ever have carried me ; and I could 
not have flattered him into a belief that I admired 
him, to gain more than he and all his generation 
are worth. 

'Tis such an ease (as you say) not to be 
solicitous to please others : in earnest, I am no 
more concerned whether people think me hand- 
some or ill-favoured, whether they think I have 
wit or that I have none, than I am whether they 
think my name Elizabeth or Dorothy. I would 
do nobody no injury ; but I should never design 
to please above one ; and that one I must love 
too, or else I should think it a trouble, and con- 
sequently not do it. I have made a general 
confession to you ; will you give me absolution ? 



i8o Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

Methinks you should; for you are not much 
better by your own relation ; therefore 'tis easiest 
to foro-ive one another. When you hear any- 
thing from your father, remember that I am 
his humble servant, and much concerned in his 

eood health. 

I am yours. 

Letter 38.— Lady Isabella is Lady Isabella Rich, my 
Lady Diana's eldest sister. She married Sir James 
Thynne. Many years ago she had an intrigue with the 
Duke of Ormond, by whom she had a son, but Dorothy 
speaks, I think, of some later scandal than this. 

My Lady Pembroke was the daughter of the Earl of 
Cumberland. She first married Richard Earl of Dorset, 
and afterwards the Earl of Pembroke. She is described 
as a woman whose mind was endowed by nature with 
very extraordinary attributes. Lord Pembroke, on the 
other hand, according to Clarendon, pretended to no other 
qualification " than to understand horses and dogs very 
well, and to be believed honest and generous." His 
stables vied with palaces, and his falconry was furnished 
at immense expense; but in his private life he was 
characterized by gross ignorance and vice, and his 
public character was marked by ingratitude and insta- 
bility. The life of Lady Pembroke was embittered by 
this man for near twenty years, and she was at length 
compelled to separate from him. She lived alone, until 
her husband's death, which took place in January 1650. 
One can understand that they were entirely unsuited 
to each other, when Lady Pembroke in her Memorials is 
found to write thus of her husband : " He was no scholar, 
having passed but three or four months at Oxford, when 



Life at Chicksands. 181 

he was taken thence after his father's death. He was 
of quick apprehension, sharp understanding, very crafty 
withal ; of a discerning spirit, but a choleric nature, 
increased by the office he held of Chamberlain to the 
King." Why, then, did the accomplished Lady Anne 
Clifford unite herself to so worthless a person ? Does 
she not answer this question for us when she writes that 
he was " the greatest nobleman in England " ? 

It is of some interest to us to remember that Francis 
Osborne, Dorothy's uncle (her father's youngest brother), 
was Master of the Horse to this great nobleman. 

Whether Lord and Lady Leicester were, as Dorothy 
says, "in great disorder" at this time, it is impossible to 
say. Lady Leicester is said to have been of a warm 
and irritable temper, and Lord Leicester is described 
by Clarendon as "staggering and irresolute in his 
nature." However, nothing is said of their quarrels ; 
but, on the other hand, there is a very pathetic account 
in Lord Leicester's journal of his wife's death in 1659, 
which shows that, whatever this " disorder " may have 
been, a complete reconciliation was afterwards effected. 

Sir, — You would have me say something of 
my coming. Alas ! how fain I would have some- 
thing to say, but I know no more than you saw in 
that letter I sent you. How willingly would I 
tell you anything that I thought would please 
you ; but I confess I do not like to give uncertain 
hopes, because I do not care to receive them. 
And I thought there was no need of saying I 
would be sure to take the first occasion, and that 
I waited with impatience for it, because I hoped 
you had believed all that already ; and so you do, 



1 82 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

I am sure. Say what you will, you cannot but 
know my heart enough to be assured that I wish 
myself with you, for my own sake as well as 
yours. 'Tis rather that you love to hear me say 
it often, than that you doubt it ; for I am no 
dissembler. I could not cry for a husband that 
were indifferent to me (like your cousin) ; no, nor 
for a husband that I loved neither. I think 
'twould break my heart sooner than make me 
shed a tear. 'Tis ordinary griefs that make me 
weep. In earnest, you cannot imagine how often 
I have been told that I had too much franchise 
in my humour, and that 'twas a point of good 
breeding to disguise handsomely ; but I answered 
still for myself, that 'twas not to be expected I 
should be exactly bred, that had never seen a 
Court since I was capable of anything. Yet I 
know so much, — that my Lady Carlisle would take 
it very ill if you should not let her get the point 
of honour; 'tis all she aims at, to go beyond 
everybody in compliment. But are you not afraid 
of giving me a strong vanity with telling me I 
write better than the most extraordinary person 
in the world ? If I had not the sense to under- 
stand that the reason why you like my letters 
better is only because they are kinder than hers, 
such a word miofht have undone me. 

But my Lady Isabella, that speaks, and looks, 
and sings, and plays, and all so prettily, why can- 
not I say that she is free from faults as her sister 



Life at Chicksands. 183 

believes her ? No ; I am afraid she is not, and 
sorry that those she has are so generally known. 
My brother did not bring them for an example ; 
but I did, and made him confess she had better 
have married a beggar than that beast with all 
his estate. She cannot be excused ; but certainly 
they run a strange hazard that have such hus- 
bands as makes them think they cannot be more 
undone, whatever course they take. Oh, 'tis ten 
thousand pities ! I remember she was the first 
woman that ever I took notice of for extremely 
handsome ; and, in earnest, she was then the 
loveliest lady that could be looked on, I think. 
But what should she do with beauty now ? Were 
I as she, I should hide myself from all the world ; 
I should think all people that looked on me read 
it in my face and despised me in their hearts ; and 
at the same time they made me a leg, or spoke 
civilly to me, I should believe they did not think 
I deserved their respect. I'll tell you who he 
urged for an example though, my Lord Pem- 
broke and my Lady, who, they say, are upon 
parting after all his passion for her,, and his 
marrying her against the consent of all his 
friends ; but to that I answered,, that though he 
pretended great kindness he had for her,, I never 
heard of much she had for him, and knew she 
married him merely for advantage. Nor is she a 
woman of that discretion as to do all that might 
become her, when she must do it rather as things 



1 84 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

fit to be done than as things she inclined to. 
Besides that, what with a spleenatick side and a 
chemical head, he is but an odd body himself. 

But is it possible what they say, that my Lord 
Leicester and my Lady are in great disorder, and 
that after forty years' patience he has now taken 
up the cudgels and resolved to venture for the 
mastery ? Methinks he wakes out of his long 
sleep like a froward child, that wrangles and 
fights with all that comes near it. They say he 
has turned away almost every servant in the 
house, and left her at Penshurst to digest it as 
she can. 

What an age do we live in, where 'tis a miracle 
if in ten couples that are married, two of them 
live so as not to publish to the world that they 
cannot agree. I begin to be of your opinion of 
him that (when the Roman Church first pro- 
pounded whether it were not convenient for 
priests not to marry) said that it might be con- 
venient enough, but sure it was not our Saviour's 
intention, for He commanded that all should take 
up their cross and follow Him ; and for his part, 
he was confident there was no such cross as a 
wife. This is an ill doctrine for me to preach ; 
but to my friends I cannot but confess that I am 
afraid much of the fault lies in us ; for I have 
observed that formerly, in great families, the men 
seldom disagree, but the women are always scold- 
ing; and 'tis most certain, that let the husband be 



Life at Chicksands. 185 

what he will, if the wife have but patience (which, 
sure, becomes her best), the disorder cannot be 
great enough to make a noise; his anger alone,' 
when it meets with nothing that resists it, cannot 
be loud enough to disturb the neighbours. And 
such a wife may be said to do as a kinswoman of 
ours that had a husband who was not always 
himself; and when he was otherwise, his humour 
was to rise in the night, and with two bedstaves 
labour on the table an hour together. She took 
care every night to lay a great cushion upon the 
table for him to strike on, that nobody might hear 
him, and so discover his madness. But 'tis a sad 
thing when all one's happiness is only that the 
world does not know you are miserable. 

For my part, I think it were very convenient 
that all such as intend to marry should live 
together in the same house some years of pro- 
bation ; and if, in all that time, they never dis- 
agreed, they should then be permitted to marry 
if they please ; but how few would do it then ! I 
do not remember that I ever saw or heard of any 
couple that were bred up so together (as many 
you know are, that are designed for one another 
from children), but they always disliked one 
another extremely ; parted, if it were left in their 
choice. If people proceeded with this caution, 
the world would end sooner than is expected, I 
believe ; and because, with all my wariness, 'tis 
not impossible but I may be caught, nor likely 



i86 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

that I should be wiser than anybody else, 'twere 
best, I think, that I said no more on this point. 

What would I give to know that sister of 
yours that is so good at discovering ; sure she is 
excellent company ; she has reason to laugh at you 
when you would have persuaded her the " moss 
was sweet." I remember Jane brought some of it 
to me, to ask me if I thought it had no ill smell, 
and whether she might venture to put it in the 
box or not. I told her as I thought, she could 
not put a more innocent thing there, for I did not 
find it had any smell at all ; besides, I was willing 
it should do me some service in requital for 
the pains I had taken for it. My niece and I 
wandered through some eight hundred acres of 
wood in search of it, to make rocks and strange 
things that her head is full of, and she admires it 
more than you did. If she had known I had 
consented it should have been used to fill up a 
box, she would have condemned me extremely. 
I told Jane that you liked her present, and she, I 
find, is resolved to spoil your compliment, and 
make you confess at last that they are not worth 
the eating ; she threatens to send you more, but 
you would forgive her if you saw how she baits 
me every day to go to London ; all that I can say 
will not satisfy her. When I urge (as 'tis true) 
that there is a necessity of my stay here, she 
grows furious, cries you will die with melancholy, 
and confounds me so with stories of your ill- 



Life at Chicksands. 187 

humour, that I'll swear I think I should go merely 
to be at quiet, if it were possible, though there 
were no other reason for it. But I hope 'tis not 
so ill as she would have me believe it, though I 
know your humour is strangely altered from what 
it was, and am sorry to see it. Melancholy must 
needs do you more hurt than to another to whom 
it may be natural, as I think it is to me ; therefore 
if you loved me you would take heed on't. Can 
you believe that you are dearer to me than the 
whole world beside, and yet neglect yourself? 
If you do not, you wrong a perfect friendship ; 
and if you do, you must consider my interest in 
you, and preserve yourself to make me happy. 
Promise me this, or I shall haunt you worse than 
she does me. Scribble how you please, so you make 
your letter long enough; you see I give you good 
example; besides, I can assure you we do perfectly 
agree if you receive not satisfaction but from my 
letters, I have none but what yours give me. 

Letter 39. — Dorothy has been in London since her last 
letter, but unfortunately she has either not met with 
Temple, or he has left town suddenly whilst she was 
there, on some unexplained errand. This would there- 
fore seem a natural place to begin a new chapter; but 
as we have very shortly to come to a series of unhappy 
letters, quite distinct in their character from these, I 
have thought fit to place in this long chapter yet a few 
more letters after Dorothy's autumn visit to London. 

Stephen Marshall was, like Hugh Peters, one of those 



1 88 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

preachers who was able to exchange the obscurity of a 
country parish for the public fame of a London pulpit, 
by reason of a certain gift of rhetorical power, the value 
of which it is impossible to estimate to-day. Such of 
his sermons as are still extant are prosy, long-winded, 
dogmatic absurdities, overloaded with periphrastic illus- 
trations in scriptural language. They are meaningless 
to a degree, which would make one wonder at the 
docility and patience of a seventeenth century congre- 
gation, if one had not witnessed a similar spirit in 
congregations of to-day. 

There is no honest biography of Stephen Marshall. 
In the news-books and tracts of the day we find refer- 
ences to sermons preached by him, by command, before 
the Army of the Parliament, and we have reprints of 
some of these. I have searched in vain to find the 
sermon which Dorothy heard, but it was probably not a 
sermon given on any great occasion, and we may believe 
it was never printed. There is an amusing scandalous 
tract, called the Life and Death of Stephen Marshall, 
which is so full of " evil speaking, lying, and slandering," 
as to be quite unworthy of quotation. From this we 
may take it, however, that he was born at Gorman- 
chester, in Cromwell's county, was educated at 
Emmanuel College, Cambridge, and that before he 
came to London his chief cure of souls was at Finching- 
field in Essex. These, and the records of his London 
preaching, are the only facts in his life's history which 
have come to my notice. 

My Lord Whitelocke did go to Sweden, as Dorothy 
surmises ; setting sail from Plymouth with one hundred 
honest men, on October 26, 1653, or very soon after- 
wards, as one may read in his journal of the progress of 
the Embassy. That he should fill this office, appears to 



Life at Chicksands. 189 

have been proposed to him by Cromwell in September 
of this year. 

An Act of Parliament to abolish the Chancery was 
indeed passed in the August of this year. Well may 
Lord Keble sore lament, and the rest of the world 
rejoice, at such news. Joseph Keble was a well- 
known law reporter, a son of Serjeant Richard Keble. 
He was a Fellow of All Souls, and a Bencher of 
Gray's Inn ; and, furthermore, was one of the Lords 
Commissioners of the Great Seal from 1648-1654. 
There was "some debate," says Whitelocke, "whether 
they should be styled * Commissioners ' or ' Lords Com- 
missioners,' " and though the word Lords was far less 
acceptable at this time than formerly, yet that they 
might not seem to lessen their own authority, nor the 
honour of their office constituted by them, they voted 
the title to be " Lords Commissioners." 

Sir, — If want of kindness were the only crime 
I exempted from pardon, 'twas not that I had the 
least apprehension you could be guilty of it ; but 
to show you (by excepting only an impossible 
thing) that I excepted nothing. No, in earnest, 
I can fancy no such thing of you, or if I could, 
the quarrel would be to myself; I should never 
forgive my own folly that let me to choose a 
friend that could be false. But I'll leave this 
(which is not much to the purpose) and tell you 
how, with my usual impatience, I expected your 
letter, and how cold it went to my heart to see it 
so short a one. 'Twas so great a pain to me that 
I am resolv'd you shall not feel it ; nor can I in 



190 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

justice punish you for a fault unwillingly com- 
mitted. If I were your enemy, I could not use 
you ill when I saw Fortune do it too, and in 
gallantry and good nature both, I should think 
myself rather obliged to protect you from her 
injury (if it lay in my power) than double them 
upon you. These things considered, I believe 
this letter will be longer than ordinary, — kinder I 
think it cannot be. I always speak my heart to 
you ; and that is so much your friend, it never 
furnishes me with anything to your disadvantage. 
I am glad you are an admirer of Telesile as well 
as I ; in my opinion 'tis a fine Lady, but I know 
you will pity poor Amestris strongly when you 
have read her story. I'll swear I cried for her 
when I read it first, though she were but an 
imaginary person ; and, sure, if anything of that 
kind can deserve it, her misfortunes may. 

God forgive me, I was as near laughing 
yesterday where I should not. Would you 
believe that I had the grace to go hear a 
sermon upon a week day? In earnest, 'tis true; 
a Mr. Marshall was the man that preached, but 
never anybody was so defeated. He is so famed 
that I expected rare things of him, and seriously 
I listened to him as if he had been St. Paul ; and 
what do you think he told us ? Why, that if there 
were no kings, no queens, no lords, no ladies, nor 
gentlemen, nor gentlewomen, in the world, 'twould 
be no loss to God Almighty at all. This we had 



Life at Chicksands. 191 

over some forty times, which made me remember 
it whether I would or not. The rest was much 
at this rate, interlarded with the prettiest odd 
phrases, that I had the most ado to look soberly 
enough for the place I was in that ever I had in 
my life. He does not preach so always, sure ? 
If he does, I cannot believe his sermons will do 
much towards bringing anybody to heaven more 
than by exercising their patience. Yet, I'll say 
that for him, he stood stoutly for tithes, though, 
in my opinion, few deserve them less than he ; 
and it may be he would be better without them. 

Yet you are not convinced, you say, that to be 
miserable is the way to be good ; to some natures 
I think it is not, but there are many of so 
careless and vain a temper, that the least breath 
of good fortune swells them with so much pride, 
that if they were not put in mind sometimes by a 
sound cross or two that they are mortal, they 
would hardly think it possible ; and though 'tis a 
sign of a servile nature when fear produces more 
of reverence in us than love, yet there is more 
danger of forgetting oneself in a prosperous 
fortune than in the contrary, and affliction may be 
the surest (though not the pleasantest) guide to 
heaven. What think you, might not I preach 
with Mr. Marshall for a wager ? But you could 
fancy a perfect happiness here, you say ; that is 
not much, many people do so ; but I never heard 
of anybody that ever had it more than in fancy, 



192 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

so that will not be strange if you should miss on't. 
One may be happy to a good degree, I think, in 
a faithful friend, a moderate fortune, and a retired 
life ; further than this I know nothing to wish ; 
but if there be anything beyond it, I wish it you. 

You did not tell me what carried you out of 
town in such haste. I hope the occasion was 
good, you must account to me for all that I lost 
by it. I shall expect a whole packet next week. 
Oh, me ! I have forgot this once or twice to tell 
you, that if it be no inconvenience to you, I could 
wish you would change the place of direction for 
my letters. Certainly that Jones knows my name, I 
bespoke a saddle of him once, and though it be a 
good while agone, yet I was so often with him 
about it, — having much ado to make him under- 
stand how I would have it, it being of a fashion 
he had never seen, though, sure, it be common, — 
that I am confident he has not forgot me. Besides 
that, upon it he got my brother's custom ; and I 
cannot tell whether he does not use the shop still. 
Jane presents her humble service to you, and has 
sent you something in a box ; 'tis hard to imagine 
what she can find here to present you withal, 
and I am much in doubt whether you will not 
pay too dear for it if you discharge the carriage. 
'Tis a pretty freedom she takes, but you may 
thank yourself; she thinks because you call her 
fellow-servant, she may use you accordingly. I 
bred her better, but you have spoiled her. 



Life at Chicksands. 193 

Is it true that my Lord Whitlocke goes 
Ambassador where my Lord Lisle should have 
gone ? I know not how he may appear in a 
Swedish Court, but he was never meant for a 
courtier at home, I believe. Yet 'tis a gracious 
Prince ; he is often in this country, and always 
does us the favour to send for his fruit hither. 
He was making a purchase of one of the best 
houses in the county. I know not whether he 
goes on with it ; but 'tis such a one as will not 
become anything less than a lord. And there is 
a talk as if the Chancery were going down ; if so, 
his title goes with it, I think. 'Twill be sad news 
for my Lord Keble's son ; he will have nothing 
left to say when " my Lord, my father," is taken 
from him. Were it not better that I had nothing 
to say neither, than that I should entertain you 
with such senseless things. I hope I am half 
asleep, nothing else can excuse me; if I were 
quite asleep, I should say fine things to you ; 
I often dream I do ; but perhaps if I could 
remember them they are no wiser than my 
wakening discourses. Good-night. 

Letter 40 — A letter has been lost : whether Harrold 
or Collins, the two carriers, were either or both of them 
guilty of carelessness in the delivery of these letters, it is 
quite impossible to say now. Dorothy seems to think 
Harrold delivered the letter, and it was mislaid in 
London. Perhaps it was this letter, and what was 
written about it, that caused all those latent feelings of 

N 



194 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

despair and discontent to awaken in the breasts of the 
two lovers. Was this the spark that loneliness and 
absence fanned into flame ? You shall judge for your- 
self, reader, in the next chapter. 

Sir, — That you may be at more certainty here- 
after what to think, let me tell you that nothing 
could hinder me from writing to you (as well for 
my own satisfaction as yours) but an impossi- 
bility of doing it ; nothing but death or a dead 
palsy in my hands, or something that had the 
.same effect. I did write it, and gave it Harrold, 
but by an accident his horse fell lame, so that he 
could not set out on Monday ; but on Tuesday 
he did come to town ; on Wednesday, carried the 
letter himself (as he tells me) where 'twas directed, 
which was to Mr. Copyn in Fleet Street. 'Twas 
the first time I made use of that direction ; no 
matter and I had not done it then, since it proves 
no better. Harrold came late home on Thursday 
night with such an account as your boy gave you : 
that coming out of town the same day he came 
in, he had been at Fleet Street again, but there 
was no letter for him. I was sorry, but I did not 
much wonder at it because he gave so little time, 
and resolved to make my best of that I had by 
Collins. I read it over often enough to make it 
equal with the longest letter that ever was writ, 
and pleased myself, in earnest (as much as it was 
possible for me in the humour I was in), to think 
how by that time you had asked me pardon for the 



Life at Chicksands. 195 

little reproaches you had made me, and that the 
kindness and length of my letter had made you 
amends for the trouble it had given you in expect- 
ing it. But I am not a little annoyed to find you 
had it not. I am very confident it was delivered, 
and therefore you must search where the fault lies. 
Were it not that you had suffered too much 
already, I would complain a little of you. Why 
should you think me so careless of anything that 
you were concerned in, as to doubt that I had 
writ ? Though I had received none from you, I 
should not have taken that occasion to revenge 
myself. Nay, I should have concluded you 
innocent, and have imagined a thousand ways 
how it might happen, rather than have suspected 
your want of kindness. Why should not you be 
as just to me ? But I will not chide, it may be 
(as long as we have been friends) you do not 
know me so well yet as to make an absolute judg 
ment of me ; but if I know myself at ail, if I am 
capable of being anything, 'tis a perfect friend. 
Yet I must chide too. Why did you get such a 
cold ? Good God ! how careless you are of a life 
that (by your own confession) I have told you 
makes all the happiness of mine. 'Tis unkindly 
done. What is left for me to say, when that will 
not prevail with you ; or how can you persuade 
me to a cure of myself, when you refuse to give 
me the example ? I have nothing in the world 
that gives me the least desire of preserving my- 



196 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

self, but the opinion I have you would not be 
willing to lose me ; and yet, if you saw with what 
caution I live (at least to what I did before), you 
would reproach it to yourself sometimes, and might 
grant, perhaps, that you have not got the advan- 
tage of me in friendship so much as you imagine. 
What (besides your consideration) could oblige 
me to live and lose all the rest of my friends 
thus one after another ? Sure I am not insensible 
nor very ill-natured, and yet I'll swear I think I 
do not afflict myself half so much as another 
would do that had my losses. I pay nothing of 
sadness to the memory of my poor brother, but 
I presently disperse it with thinking what I owe 
in thankfulness that 'tis not you I mourn for. 

Well, give me no more occasions to complain of 
you, you know not what may follow. Here was 
Mr. Freeman yesterday that made me a very kind 
visit, and said so many fine things to me, that I 
was confounded with his civilities, and had nothing 
to say for myself. I could have wished then that 
he had considered me less and my niece more; but 
if you continue to use me thus, in earnest, I'll not 
be so much her friend hereafter. Methinks I see 
you laugh at all my threatenings ; and not without 
reason. Mr. Freeman, you believe, is designed for 
somebody that deserves him better. I think so 
too, and am not sorry for it ; and you have reason 
to believe I never can be other than 

Your faithful friend. 



CHAPTER IV. 

DESPONDENCY. CHRISTMAS I 653. 

THIS chapter of letters is a sad note, sounding out from 
among its fellows with mournful clearness. There had 
seemed a doubt whether all these letters must be 
regarded as of one series, or whether, more correctly, it 
was to be assumed that Dorothy and Temple had their 
lovers' quarrels, for the well -understood pleasure of 
kissing friends again. But you will agree that these 
lovers were not altogether as other lovers are, that their 
troubles were too real and too many for their love to 
need the stimulus of constant April shower quarrels ; 
and these letters are very serious in their sadness, im- 
printing themselves in the mind after constant reading 
as landmarks clearly defining the course and progress 
of an unusual event in these lovers' history — a misunder- 
standing. 

The letters are written at Christmastide, 1653. Dorothy 
had returned from London to Chicksands, and either 
had not seen Temple or he had left London hurriedly 
whilst she was there. There is a letter lost. Dorothy's 
youngest brother is lately dead ; her niece has left her ; 
her companion Jane is sick ; her father, growing daily 
weaker and weaker, was sinking into his grave before 
her eyes. No bright chance seemed to open before her, 
and their marriage seemed an impossibility. For a 



198 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

moment she loses faith, not in Temple, but in fortune ; 
faith once gone, hope, missing her comrade, flies away 
in search of her. She is alone in the old house with her 
dying father, and with her brother pouring his unkind 
gossip into her unwilling ear, whilst the sad long year 
draws slowly to its close, and there is no sign of better 
fortune for the lovers ; can we wonder, then, that 
Dorothy, lonely and unaided, pacing in the damp 
garden beneath the bare trees, with all the bright 
summer changed into decay, lost faith and hope ? 

Temple, when Dorothy's thoughts reach him, must 
have replied with some impatience. There are stories, 
too, set about concerning her good name by one Mr. B., 
to disturb Temple. Temple can hardly have given 
credence to these, but he may have complained of them 
to Dorothy, who is led to declare, " I am the most 
unfortunate woman breathing, but I was never false," 
though she forgives her lover " all those strange thoughts 
he has had " of her. Whatever were the causes of the 
quarrel, or rather the despondency, we shall never know 
accurately. Dorothy was not the woman to vapour for 
months about "an early and a quiet grave." When she 
writes this it is written in the deepest earnest of despair ; 
when this mood is over it is over for ever, and we emerge 
into a clear atmosphere of hope and content. The 
despondency has been agonizing, but the agony is sharp 
and rapid, and gives place to the wisdom of hope. 

Temple now comes to Chicksands at an early date. 
There is a new interchange of vows. Never again will 
their faith be shaken by fretting and despair ; and these 
vows are never broken, but remain with the lovers until 
they are set aside by others, taken under the solemn 
sanction of the law, and the old troubles vanish in new 
responsibilities and a new life. 



Despondency. 1 99 

Letter 41. — Lady Anne Blunt was a daughter of the 
Earl of Newport. Her mother had turned Catholic in 
l ^>37> which had led to an estrangement between her and 
her husband, and we may conclude poor Lady Anne had 
by no means a happy home. There are two scandals 
connected with her name. She appears to have run 
away with one William Blunt, — the " Mr. Blunt " 
mentioned by Dorothy in her next letter ; and on 
April 18, 1654, she petitioned the Protector to issue a 
special commission upon her whole case. Mr. Blunt 
pretended that she was contracted to him for the sake, 
it is said, of gaining money thereby. There being no 
Bishop's Court at this time, there are legal difficulties 
in the way, and we never hear the result of the petition. 
Again, in February 1655, one Mr. Porter finds him- 
self committed to Lambeth House for carrying away 
the Lady Anne Blunt, and endeavouring to marry her 
without her father's consent. 

Sir, — Having tired myself with thinking, I 
mean to weary you with reading, and revenge 
myself that way for all the unquiet thoughts you 
have given me. But I intended this a sober 
letter, and therefore, sans raillcrie, let me tell 
you, I have seriously considered all our mis- 
fortunes, and can see no end of them but by sub- 
mitting to that which we cannot avoid, and by 
yielding to it break the force of a blow which if 
resisted brings a certain ruin. I think I need not 
tell you how dear you have been to me, nor that 
in your kindness I placed all the satisfaction of 
my life ; 'twas the only happiness I proposed to 



200 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

myself, and had set my heart so much upon it 
that it was therefore made my punishment, to let 
me see that, how innocent soever I thought my 
affection, it was guilty in being greater than is 
allowable for things of this world. 'Tis not a 
melancholy humour gives me these apprehensions 
and inclinations, nor the persuasions of others ; 
'tis the result of a long strife with myself, before 
my reason could overcome my passion, or bring 
me to a perfect resignation to whatsoever is 
allotted for me. 'Tis now done, I hope, and I 
have nothing left but to persuade you to that, 
which I assure myself your own judgment will 
approve in the end, and your reason has often 
prevailed with you to offer ; that which you would 
have done then out of kindness to me and point 
of honour, I would have you do now out of 
wisdom and kindness to yourself. Not that I 
would disclaim my part in it or lessen my obliga- 
tion to you, no, I am your friend as much as 
ever I was in my life, I think more, and I am 
sure I shall never be less. I have known you 
long enough to discern that you have all the 
qualities that make an excellent friend, and I shall 
endeavour to deserve that you may be so to me ; 
but I would have you do this upon the justest 
grounds, and such as may conduce most to your 
quiet and future satisfaction. When we have 
tried all ways to happiness, there is no such thing 
to be found but in a mind conformed to one's 



Despondency. 201 

condition, whatever it be, and in not aiming at 
anything that is either impossible or improbable ; 
all the rest is but vanity and vexation of spirit, 
and I durst pronounce it so from that little know- 
ledge I have had of the world, though I had not 
Scripture for my warrant. The shepherd that 
bragged to the traveller, who asked him, " What 
weather it was like to be ? " that it should be 
what weather pleased him, and made it good by 
saying it should be what weather pleased God, 
and what pleased God should please him, said 
an excellent thing in such language, and knew 
enough to make him the happiest person in the 
world if he made a right use on't. There can 
be no pleasure in a struggling life, and that folly 
which we condemn in an ambitious man, that's 
ever labouring for that which is hardly got and 
more uncertainly kept, is seen in all according to 
their several humours ; in some 'tis covetousness, 
in others pride, in some stubbornness of nature 
that chooses always to go against the tide, and in 
others an unfortunate fancy to things that are in 
themselves innocent till we make them otherwise 
by desiring them too much. Of this sort you and 
I are, I think ; we have lived hitherto upon hopes 
so airy that I have often wondered how they 
could support the weight of our misfortunes ; but 
passion gives a strength above nature, we see it in 
mad people ; and, not to flatter ourselves, ours is 
but a refined degree of madness. What can it 



202 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

be else to be lost to all things in the world but 
that single object that takes up one's fancy, to 
lose all the quiet and repose of one's life in 
hunting after it, when there is so little likelihood 
of ever gaining it, and so many more probable 
accidents that will infallibly make us miss on't ? 
And which is more than all, 'tis being mastered 
by that which reason and religion teaches us to 
govern, and in that only gives us a pre-eminence 
over beasts. This, soberly consider'd, is enough 
to let us see our error, and consequently to per- 
suade us to redeem it. To another person, I 
should justify myself that 'tis not a lightness in 
my nature, nor any interest that is not common 
to us both, that has wrought this change in me. 
To you that know my heart, and from whom I 
shall never hide it, to whom a thousand testi- 
monies of my kindness can witness the reality of 
it, and whose friendship is not built upon common 
grounds, I have no more to say but that I impose 
not my opinions upon you, and that I had rather 
you took them up as your own choice than upon 
my entreaty. But if, as we have not differed in 
anything else, we could agree in this too, and 
resolve upon a friendship that will be much the 
perfecter for having nothing of passion in it, 
how happy might we be without so much as a fear 
of the change that any accident could bring. We 
might defy all that fortune could do, and putting 
off all disguise and constraint, with that which 



Despondency. 203 

only made it necessary, make our lives as easy to 
us as the condition of this world will permit. I 
may own you as a person that I extremely value 
and esteem, and for whom I have a particular 
friendship, and you may consider me as one that 
will always be 

Your faithful. 



This was written when I expected a letter from 
you, how came I to miss it ? I thought at first 
it might be the carrier's fault in changing his time 
without giving notice, but he assures me he did, 
to Nan. My brother's groom came down to-day, 
too, and saw her, he tells me, but brings me 
nothing from her ; if nothing of ill be the cause, I 
am contented. You hear the noise my Lady 
Anne Blunt has made with her marrying ? I am 
so weary with meeting it in all places where I 
go ; from what is she fallen ! they talked but the 
week before that she should have my Lord of 
Strafford. Did you not intend to write to me 
when you writ to Jane ? That bit of paper did 
me great service ; without it I should have had 
strange apprehension, and my sad dreams, and 
the several frights I have waked in, would have 
run so in my head that I should have concluded 
something of very ill from your silence. Poor 
Jane is sick, but she will write, she says, if she 
can. Did you send the last part of Cyrus to Mr. 
H oil ings worth ? 



204 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 



Letter 42. 

Sir, — I am extremely sorry that your letter 
miscarried, but I am confident my brother has it 
not. As cunning as he is, he could not hide 
from me, but that I should discover it some way 
or other. No ; he was here, and both his men, 
when this letter should have come, and not one 
of them stirred out that day ; indeed, the next 
day they went all to London. The note you writ 
to Jane came in one of Nan's, by Collins, but 
nothing else ; it must be lost by the porter that 
was sent with it, and 'twas very unhappy that 
there should be anything in it of more conse- 
quence than ordinary ; it may be numbered 
amongst the rest of our misfortunes, all which an 
inconsiderate passion has occasioned. You must 
pardon me I cannot be reconciled to it, it has 
been the ruin of us both. 'Tis true that nobody 
must imagine to themselves ever to be absolute 
master on't, but there is great difference betwixt 
that and yielding to it, between striving with it 
and soothing it up till it grows too strong for one. 
Can I remember how ignorantly and innocently 
I suffered it to steal upon me by degrees ; how 
under a mask of friendship I cozened myself 
into that which, had it appeared to me at first in 
its true shape, I had feared and shunned ? Can 
I discern that it has made the trouble of your 



Despondency. 205 

life, and cast a cloud upon mine, that will help to 
cover me in my grave ? Can I know that it 
wrought so upon us both as to make neither of 
us friends to one another, but agree in running 
wildly to our own destruction, and that perhaps of 
some innocent persons who might live to curse 
our folly that gave them so miserable a being ? 
Ah ! if you love yourself or me, you must confess 
that I have reason to condemn this senseless 
passion ; that wheresoe'er it comes destroys all 
that entertain it; nothing of judgment or discretion 
can live with it, and it puts everything else out of 
order before it can find a place for itself. What 
has it brought my poor Lady Anne Blunt to ? 
She is the talk of all the footmen and boys in the 
street, and will be company for them shortly, and 
yet is so blinded by her passion as not at all to 
perceive the misery she has brought herself to ; 
and this fond love of hers has so rooted all sense 
of nature out of her heart, that, they say, she is 
no more moved than a statue with the affliction 
of a father and mother that doted on her, and had 
placed the comfort of their lives in her prefer- 
ment. With all this is it not manifest to the 
whole world that Mr. Blunt could not consider 
anything in this action but his own interest, and 
that he makes her a very ill return for all her 
kindness ; if he had loved her truly he would 
have died rather than have been the occasion of 
this misfortune to her. My cousin Franklin (as 



206 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

you observe very well) may say fine things now 
she is warm in Moor Park, but she is very much 
altered in her opinions since her marriage, if these 
be her own. She left a gentleman, that I could 
name, whom she had much more of kindness for 
than ever she had for Mr. Franklin, because his 
estate was less ; and upon the discovery of some 
letters that her mother intercepted, suffered her- 
self to be persuaded that twenty-three hundred 
pound a year was better than twelve hundred, 
though with a person she loved ; and has 
recovered it so well, that you see she confesses 
there is nothing in her condition she desires to 
alter at the charge of a wish. She's happier by 
much than I shall ever be, but I do not envy 
her ; may she long enjoy it, and I an early and 
a quiet grave, free from the trouble of this busy 
world, where all with passion pursue their own 
interests at their neighbour's charges ; where 
nobody is pleased but somebody complains on't ; 
and where 'tis impossible to be without giving 
and receiving injuries. 

You would know what I would be at, and how 
I intend to dispose of myself. Alas ! were I in 
my own disposal, you should come to my grave 
to be resolved ; but grief alone will not kill. All 
that I can say, then, is that I resolve on nothing 
but to arm myself with patience, to resist nothing 
that is laid upon me, nor struggle for what I have 
no hope to get. I have no ends nor no designs, 



Despondency. 207 

nor will my heart ever be capable of any ; but like 
a country wasted by a civil war, where two oppos- 
ing parties have disputed their right so long till 
they have made it worth neither of their con- 
quests, 'tis ruined and desolated by the long 
strife within it to that degree as 'twill be useful 
to none, — nobody that knows the condition 'tis 
in will think it worth the gaining, and I shall not 
trouble anybody with it. No, really, if I may be 
permitted to desire anything, it shall be only that 
I may injure nobody but myself, — I can bear 
anything that reflects only upon me ; or, if I 
cannot, I can die ; but I would fain die innocent, 
that I might hope to be happy in the next world, 
though never in this. I take it a little ill that 
you should conjure me by anything, with a belief 
that 'tis more powerful with me than your kind- 
ness. No, assure yourself what that alone cannot 
gain will be denied to all the world. You would 
see me, you say ? You may do so if you please, 
though I know not to what end. You deceive 
yourself if you think it would prevail upon me 
to alter my intentions ; besides, I can make no 
contrivances ; it must be here, and I must endure 
the noise it will make, and undergo the censures 
of a people that choose ever to give the worst 
interpretation that anything will bear. Yet if 
it can be any ease to you to make me more 
miserable than I am, never spare me; consider 
yourself only, and not me at all, — 'tis no more 



208 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

than I deserve for not accepting what you offered 
me whilst 'twas in your power to make it good, 
as you say it then was. You were prepared, it 
seems, but I was surprised, I confess. 'Twas a 
kind fault though ; and you may pardon it with 
more reason than I have to forgive it myself. 
And let me tell you this, too, as lost and as 
wretched as I am, I have still some sense of my 
reputation left in me, — I find that to my cost, — 
I shall attempt to preserve it as clear as I can ; 
and to do that, I must, if you see me thus, make 
it the last of our interviews. What can excuse 
me if I should entertain any person that is known 
to pretend to me, when I can have no hope of 
ever marrying him ? And what hope can I have 
of that when the fortune that can only make it 
possible to me depends upon a thousand accidents 
and contingencies, the uncertainty of the place 'tis 
in, and the government it may fall under, your 
father's life or his success, his disposal of himself 
and of his fortune, besides the time that must 
necessarily be required to produce all this, and 
the changes that may probably bring with it, 
which 'tis impossible for us to foresee ? All this 
considered, what have I to say for myself when 
people shall ask, what 'tis I expect ? Can there 
be anything vainer than such a hope upon such 
grounds ? You must needs see the folly on't 
yourself, and therefore examine your own heart 
what 'tis fit for me to do, and what you can do 



Despondency. 209 

for a person you love, and that deserves your com- 
passion if nothing else, — a person that will always 
have an inviolable friendship for you, a friendship 
that shall take up all the room my passion held 
in my heart, and govern there as master, till death 
come and take possession and turn it out. 

Why should you make an impossibility where 
there is none ? A thousand accidents mi^ht have 
taken me from you, and you must have borne it. 
Why would not your own resolution work as 
much upon you as necessity and time does in- 
fallibly upon people ? Your father would take it 
very ill, I believe, if you should pretend to love 
me better than he did my Lady, yet she is dead 
and he lives, and perhaps may do to love again. 
There is a gentlewoman in this country that loved 
so passionately for six or seven years that her 
friends, who kept her from marrying, fearing her 
death, consented to it; and within half a year 
her husband died, which afflicted her so strongly 
nobody thought she would have lived. She saw 
no light but candles in three years, nor came 
abroad in five ; and now that 'tis some nine years 
past, she is passionately taken again with another, 
and how long she has been so nobody knows but 
herself. This is to let you see 'tis not impossible 
what I ask, nor unreasonable. Think on't, and 
attempt it at least ; but do it sincerely, and do not 
help your passion to master you. As you have 
ever loved me do this. 

o 



210 Letters from Dorothy Osdorne. 

The carrier shall bring your letters to Suffolk 
House to Jones. I shall long to hear from you ; 
but if you should deny the only hope that's left 
me, I must beg you will defer it till Christmas 
Day be past ; for, to deal freely with you, I have 
some devotions to perform then, which must not 
be disturbed with anything, and nothing is like to 
do it as so sensible an affliction. Adieu. 

Letter 43. 

Sir, — I can say little more than I did, — I am 
convinced of the vileness of the world and all 
that's in it, and that I deceived myself extremely 
when I expected anything of comfort from it. 
No, I have no more to do in't but to grow every 
day more and more weary of it, if it be possible 
that I have not yet reached the highest degree of 
hatred for it. But I thank God I hate nothing 
else but the base world, and the vices that make 
a part of it. I am in perfect charity with my 
enemies, and have compassion for all people's 
misfortunes as well as for my own, especially for 
those I may have caused ; and I may truly say I 
bear my share of such. But as nothing obliges 
me to relieve a person that is in extreme want 
till I change conditions with him and come to be 
where he began, and that I may be thought com- 
passionate if I do all that I can without prejudic- 
ing myself too much, so let me tell you, that if 
I could help it, I would not love you, and that as 



Despondency. 2 1 1 

long as I live I shall strive against it as against 
that which had been my ruin, and was certainly- 
sent me as a punishment for my sin. But I 
shall always have a sense of your misfortunes, 
equal, if not above, my own. I shall pray that 
you may obtain a quiet I never hope for but in 
my grave, and I shall never change my condition 
but with my life. Yet let not this give you a 
hope. Nothing ever can persuade me to enter 
the world again. I shall, in a short time, have 
disengaged myself of all my little affairs in it, and 
settled myself in a condition to apprehend nothing 
but too long a life, therefore I wish you would 
forget me ; and to induce you to it, let me tell 
you freely that I deserve you should. If I re- 
member anybody, 'tis against my will. I am 
possessed with that strange insensibility that my 
nearest relations have no tie upon me, and I find 
myself no more concerned in those that I have 
heretofore had great tenderness of affection for, 
than in my kindred that died long before I was 
born. Leave me to this, and seek a better 
fortune. I beg it of you as heartily as I forgive 
you all those strange thoughts you have had of 
me. Think me so still if that will do anything 
towards it. For God's sake do take any course 
that may make you happy ; or, if that cannot be, 
less unfortunate at least than 

Your friend and humble servant, 

D. Osborne. 



212 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

I can hear nothing of that letter, but I hear 
from all people that I know, part of my unhappy 
story, and from some that I do not know. A 
lady, whose face I never saw, sent it me as news 
she had out of Ireland. 



Letter 44. 

Sir, — If you have ever loved me, do not refuse 
the last request I shall ever make you ; 'tis to 
preserve yourself from the violence of your 
passion. Vent it all upon me ; call me and 
think me what you please ; make me, if it be 
possible, more wretched than I am. I'll bear it 
all without the least murmur. Nay, I deserve it 
all, for had you never seen me you had certainly 
been happy. 'Tis my misfortunes only that have 
that infectious quality as to strike at the same 
time me and all that's dear to me. I am the 
most unfortunate woman breathing, but I was 
never false. No ; I call heaven to witness that 
if my life could satisfy for the least injury my 
fortune has done you (I cannot say 'twas I that 
did them you), I would lay it down with greater 
joy than any person ever received a crown ; and 
if I ever forget what I owe you, or ever enter- 
tained a thought of kindness for any person in 
the world besides, may I live a long and miserable 
life. 'Tis the greatest curse I can invent; if there 
be a greater, may I feel it. This is all I can say. 



Despondency. 2 1 3 

Tell me if it be possible I can do anything for 
you, and tell me how I may deserve your pardon 
for all the trouble I have given you. I would 
not die without it. 

[Directed.] For Mr. Temple. 



Letter 45. 

Sir, — 'Tis most true what you say, that few 
have what they merit ; if it were otherwise, you 
would be happy, I think, but then I should be so 
too, and that must not be, — a false and an incon- 
stant person cannot merit it, I am sure. You are 
kind in your good wishes, but I aim at no friends 
nor no princes, the honour would be lost upon me ; 
I should become a crown so ill, there would be no 
striving for it after me, and, sure, I should not wear 
it long. Your letter was a much greater loss to 
me than that of Henry Cromwell, and, therefore, 
'tis that with all my care . and diligence I can- 
not inquire it out. You will not complain, I 
believe, of the shortness of my last, whatever else 
you dislike in it, and if I spare you at any time 
'tis because I cannot but imagine, since I am so 
wearisome to myself, that I must needs be so to 
everybody else, though, at present, I have other 
occasions that will not permit this to be a long 
one. I am sorry it should be only in my power 
to make a friend miserable, and that where I 
have so great a kindness I should do so great 



214 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

injuries ; but 'tis my fortune, and I must bear it ; 
'twill be none to you, I hope, to pray for you, nor 
to desire that you would (all passion laid aside) 
freely tell me my faults, that I may, at least, ask 
your forgiveness where 'tis not in my power to 
make you better satisfaction. I would fain make 
even with all the world, and be out of danger of 
dying in anybody's debt ; then I have nothing 
more to do in it but to expect when I shall be 
so happy as to leave it, and always to remember 
that my misfortune makes all my faults towards 
you, and that my faults to God make all my 
misfortunes. 

Your unhappy. 

Letter 46. 

Sir, — That which I writ by your boy was in 
so much haste and distraction as I cannot be 
satisfied with it, nor believe it has expressed my 
thoughts as I meant them. No, I find it is not 
easily done at more leisure, and I am yet to seek 
what to say that is not too little nor too much. 
I would fain let you see that I am extremely 
sensible of your affliction, that I would lay down 
my life to redeem you from it, but that's a mean 
expression ; my life is of so little value that I will 
not mention it. No, let it be rather what, in 
earnest, if I can tell anything I have left that is 
considerable enough to expose for it, it must be 



Despondency. 2 1 5 

that small reputation I have amongst my friends, 
that's all my wealth, and that I could part with 
to restore you to that quiet you lived in when 
I first knew you. But, on the other side, I would 
not give you hopes of that I cannot do. If I 
loved you less I would allow you to be the same 
person to me, and I would be the same to you 
as heretofore. But to deal freely with you, that 
were to betray myself, and I find that my passion 
would quickly be my master again if I gave it 
any liberty. I am not secure that it would not 
make me do the most extravagant things in the 
world, and I shall be forced to keep a continual 
war alive with it as long as there are any re- 
mainders of it left ; — I think I might as well have 
said as long as I lived. Why should you give 
yourself over so unreasonably to it ? Good God ! 
no woman breathing can deserve half the trouble 
you give yourself. If I were yours from this 
minute I could not recompense what you have 
suffered from the violence of your passion, though 
I were all that you can imagine me, when, God 
knows, I am an inconsiderable person, born to a 
thousand misfortunes, which have taken away all 
sense of anything else from me, and left me a 
walking misery only. I do from my soul forgive 
you all the injuries your passion has done me, 
though, let me tell you, I was much more at 
my ease whilst I was angry. Scorn and despite 
would have cured me in some reasonable time, 



216 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

which I despair of now. However, I am not 
displeased with it, and, if it may be of any 
advantage to you, I shall not consider myself in 
it ; but let me beg, then, that you will leave off 
those dismal thoughts. I tremble at the desperate 
things you say in your letter ; for the love of God, 
consider seriously with yourself what can enter 
into comparison with the safety of your soul. 
Are a thousand women, or ten thousand worlds, 
worth it ? No, you cannot have so little reason 
left as you pretend, nor so little religion. For 
God's sake let us not neglect what can only 
make us happy for trifles. If God had seen it 
fit to have satisfied our desires we should have 
had them, and everything would not have con- 
spired thus to have crossed them. Since He has 
decreed it otherwise (at least as far as we are 
able to judge by events), we must submit, and 
not by striving make an innocent passion a sin, 
and show a childish stubbornness. 

I could say a thousand things more to this 
purpose if I were not in haste to send this away, 
— that it may come to you, at least, as soon as 
the other. Adieu. 

I cannot imagine who this should be that Mr. 
Dr. meant, and am inclined to believe 'twas a 
story meant to disturb you, though perhaps not 
by him. 



Despondency. 217 

Letter 47. 

Sir, — 'Tis never my humour to do injuries, nor 
was this meant as any to you. No, in earnest, if 
I could have persuaded you to have quitted a 
passion that injures you, I had done an act of 
real friendship, and you might have lived to 
thank me for it; but since it cannot be, I will 
attempt it no more. I have laid before you the 
inconveniences it brings along, how certain the 
trouble is, and how uncertain the reward ; how 
many accidents may hinder us from ever being 
happy, and how few there are (and those so 
unlikely) to make up our desire. All this makes 
no impression on you ; you are still resolved to 
follow your blind guide, and I to pity where I 
cannot help. It will not be amiss though to let 
you see that what I did was merely in considera- 
tion of your interest, and not at all of my own, 
that you may judge of me accordingly ; and, to 
do that, I must tell you that, unless it were after 
the receipt of those letters that made me angry, 
I never had the least hope of wearing out my 
passion, nor, to say truth, much desire. For to 
what purpose should I have strived against it ? 
'Twas innocent enough in me that resolved never 
to marry, and would have kept me company in 
this solitary place as long as I lived, without 
being a trouble to myself or anybody else. Nay, 
in earnest, if I could have hoped you would be so 



2i8 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

much your own friend as to seek out a happiness 
in some other person, nothing under heaven could 
have satisfied me like entertaining myself with 
the thought of having done you service in divert- 
ing you from a troublesome pursuit of what is so 
uncertain, and by that giving you the occasion of 
a better fortune. Otherwise, whether you loved 
me still, or whether you did not, was equally the 
same to me, your interest set aside. I will not 
reproach you how ill an interpretation you made 
of this, because we will have no more quarrels. 
On the contrary, because I see 'tis in vain to think 
of curing you, I'll study only to give you what 
ease I can, and leave the rest to better physicians, 
— to time and fortune. Here, then, I declare that 
you have still the same power in my heart that 
I gave you at our last parting ; that I will never 
marry any other ; and that if ever our fortunes 
will allow us to marry, you shall dispose of me as 
you please ; but this, to deal freely with you, I do 
not hope for. No ; 'tis too great a happiness, and 
I, that know myself best, must acknowledge I 
deserve crosses and afflictions, but can never 
merit such a blessing. You know 'tis not a fear 
of want that frights me. I thank God I never 
distrusted His providence, nor I hope never shall, 
and without attributing anything to myself, I 
may acknowledge He has given me a mind that 
can be satisfied with as narrow a compass as that 
of any person living of my rank. But I confess 



Despondency. 219 

that I have an humour will not suffer me to ex- 
pose myself to people's scorn. The name of love 
is grown so contemptible by the folly of such as 
have falsely pretended to it, and so many giddy 
people have married upon that score and re- 
pented so shamefully afterwards, that nobody can 
do anything that tends towards it without being 
esteemed a ridiculous person. Now, as my young 
Lady Holland says, I never pretended to wit in 
my life, but I cannot be satisfied that the world 
should think me a fool, so that all I can do for 
you will be to preserve a constant kindness for 
you, which nothing shall ever alter or diminish ; 
I'll never give you any more alarms, by going 
about to persuade you against that you have for 
me ; but from this hour we'll live quietly, no more 
fears, no more jealousies ; the wealth of the whole 
world, by the grace of God, shall not tempt me 
to break my word with you, nor the importunity 
of all my friends I have. Keep this as a testi- 
mony against me if ever I do, and make me a 
reproach to them by it ; therefore be secure, and 
rest satisfied with what I can do for you. 

You should come hither but that I expect my 
brother every day; not but that he designed a longer 
stay when he went, but since he keeps his horses 
with him 'tis an infallible token that he is coming. 
We cannot miss fitter times than this twenty in a 
year, and I shall be as ready to give you notice of 
such as you can be to desire it, only you would 



220 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

do me a great pleasure if you could forbear writ- 
ing, unless it were sometimes on great occasions. 
This is a strange request for me to make, that 
have been fonder of your letters than my Lady 
Protector is of her new honour, and, in earnest, 
would be so still but there are a thousand incon- 
veniences in't that I could tell you. Tell me 
what you can do ; in the meantime think of some 
employment for yourself this summer. Who 
knows what a year may produce? If nothing, 
we are but where we were, and nothing can 
hinder us from being, at least, perfect friends. 
Adieu. There's nothing so terrible in my other 
letter but you may venture to read it. Have not 
you forgot my Lady's book ? 



CHAPTER V. 

THE LAST OF CHICKSANDS. FEBRUARY AND 
MARCH 1654. 

THE quarrel is over, happily over, and Dorothy and 
Temple are more than reconciled again. Temple has 
been down to Chicksands to see her, and some more 
definite arrangement has been come to between them. 
Dorothy has urged Temple to go to Ireland and join 
his father, who has once again taken possession of his 
office of Master of the Rolls. As soon as an appointment 
can be found for Temple they are to be married — that 
is, as far as one can gather, the state of affairs between 
them ; but it would seem as if nothing of this was 
as yet to be known to the outer world, not even to 
Dorothy's brother. 

Letter 48. 

Sir, — 'Tis but an hour since you went, and I am 
writing to you already ; is not this kind ? How 
do you after your journey; are you not weary; do 
you not repent that you took it to so little pur- 
pose ? Well, God forgive me, and you too, you 
made me tell a great lie. I was fain to say you 
came only to take your leave before you went 

abroad ; and all this not only to keep quiet, but 

221 



222 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

to keep him from playing the madman ; for when 
he has the least suspicion, he carries it so strangely 
that all the world takes notice on't, and so often 
guess at the reason, or else he tells it. Now, do 
but you judge whether if by mischance he should 
discover the truth, whether he would not rail most 
sweetly at me (and with some reason) for abusing 
him. Yet you helped to do it ; a sadness that he 
discovered at your going away inclined him to 
believe you were ill satisfied, and made him credit 
what I said. He is kind now in extremity, and I 
would be glad to keep him so till a discovery is 
absolutely necessary. Your going abroad will 
confirm him much in his belief, and I shall 
have nothing to torment me in this place but my 
own doubts and fears. Here I shall find all the 
repose I am capable of, and nothing will disturb 
my prayers and wishes for your happiness which 
only can make mine. Your journey cannot be 
to your disadvantage neither ; you must needs 
be pleased to visit a place you are so much con- 
cerned in, and to be a witness yourself of 
your hopes, though I will believe you need no 
other inducements to this voyage than my 
desiring it. I know you love me, and you 
have no reason to doubt my kindness. Let us 
both have patience to wait what time and fortune 
will do for us ; they cannot hinder our being 
perfect friends. 

Lord, there were a thousand things I remem- 



The L ast of Ch icksands. 223 

be red after you were gone that I should have said, 
and now I am to write not one of them will come 
into my head. Sure as I live it is not settled yet! 
Good God ! the fears and surprises, the crosses 
and disorders of that day, 'twas confused enough 
to be a dream, and I am apt to think sometimes 
it was no more. But no, I saw you ; when I 
shall do it again, God only knows ! Can there be 
a romancer story than ours would make if the 
conclusion prove happy ? Ah ! I dare not hope 
it ; something that I cannot describe draws a 
cloud over all the light my fancy discovers some- 
times, and leaves me so in the dark with all my 
fears about me that I tremble to think on't. But 
no more of this sad talk. 

Who was that, Mr. Dr. told you I should 
marry ? I cannot imagine for my life ; tell me, or 
I shall think you made it to excuse yourself. Did 
not you say once you knew where good French 
tweezers were to be had ? Pray send me a pair ; 
they shall cut no love. Before you go I must 
have a ring from you, too, a plain gold one ; if I 
ever marry it shall be my wedding ring ; when I 
die I'll give it you again. What a dismal story 
this is you sent me ; but who could expect better 
from a love begun upon such grounds ? I cannot 
pity neither of them, they were both so guilty. 
Yes, they are the more to be pitied for that. 

Here is a note comes to me just now, will you 
do this service for a fine lady that is my friend ; 



224 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

have not I taught her well, she writes better than 
her mistress ? How merry and pleased she is 
with her marrying because there is a plentiful 
fortune ; otherwise she would not value the man 
at all. This is the world ; would you and I were 
out of it : for, sure, we were not made to live in 
it. Do you remember Arme and the little house 
there ? Shall we go thither ? that's next to being 
out of the world. There we might live like 
Baucis and Philemon, grow old together in our 
little cottage, and for our charity to some ship- 
wrecked strangers obtain the blessing of dying 
both at the same time. How idly I talk ; 'tis 
because the story pleases me — none in Ovid so 
much. I remember I cried when I read it. Me- 
thought they were the perfectest characters of a 
contented marriage, where piety and love were 
all their wealth, and in their poverty feasted the 
o-ods when rich men shut them out. I am called 
away, — farewell ! 

Your faithful. 



Letter 49. — The beginning of this letter is lost, and 
with it, perhaps, the name of Dorothy's lover who had 
written some verses on her beauty. However, we have 
the " tag " of them, with which we must rest content. 

. . . 'Tis pity I cannot show you what his wit 
could do upon so ill a subject, but my Lady 
Ruthin keeps them to abuse me withal, and has 



The Last of Chicksands. 225 

put a tune to them that I may hear them all 
manner of ways ; and yet I do protest I remember 
nothing more of them than this lame piece, — 

A stately and majestic brow, 

Of force to make Protectors bow. 

Indeed, if I have any stately looks I think he has 
seen them, but yet it seems they could not keep 
him from playing the fool. My Lady Grey told 
me that one day talking of me to her (as he would 
find ways to bring in that discourse by the head 
and shoulders, whatsoever anybody else could 
interpose), he said he wondered I did not marry. 
She (that understood him well enough, but would 
not seem to do so) said she knew not, unless it 
were that I liked my present condition so well 
that I did not care to change it ; which she was 
apt to believe, because to her knowledge I had 
refused very good fortunes, and named some so 
far beyond his reach, that she thought she had 
dashed all his hopes. But he, confident still, said 
'twas perhaps that I had no fancy to their persons 
(as if his own were so taking), that I was to be 
looked upon as one that had it in my power to 
please myself, and that perhaps in a person I 
liked would bate something of fortune. To this 
my Lady answered again for me, that 'twas not 
impossible but I might do so, but in that point 
she thought me nice and curious enough. And 
still to dishearten him the more, she took occa- 

p 



226 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

sion (upon his naming some gentlemen of the 
county that had been talked of heretofore as of 
my servants, and are since disposed of) to say 
(very plainly) that 'twas true they had some of 
them pretended, but there was an end of my 
Bedfordshire servants she was sure there were 
no more that could be admitted into the number. 
After all this (which would have satisfied an 
ordinary young man) did I this last Thursday 
receive a letter from him by Collins, which he 
sent first to London that it might come from 
thence to me. I threw it into the fire ; and do 
you but keep my counsel, nobody shall ever know 
that I had it; and my gentleman shall be kept 
at such a distance as I hope to hear no more of 
him. Yet I'll swear of late I have used him so 
near to rudely that there is little left for me to do. 
Fye ! what a deal of paper I have spent upon this 
idle fellow ; if I had thought his story would have 
proved so long you should have missed on't, and 
the loss would not have been great. 

I have not thanked you yet for my tweezers 
and essences ; they are both very good. I kept 
one of the little glasses myself; remember my 
ring, and in return, if I go to London whilst you 
are in Ireland, I'll have my picture taken in little 
and send it you. The sooner you despatch away 
will be the better, I think, since I have no hopes 
of seeing you before you go ; there lies all your 
business, your father and fortune must do all the 



The Last of Chicksands. 227 

rest. I cannot be more yours than I am. You 
are mistaken if you think I stand in awe of my 
brother. No, I fear nobody's anger. I am proof 
against all violence; but when people haunt me 
with reasoning and entreaties, when they look sadly 
and pretend kindness, when they beg upon that 
score, 'tis a strange pain to me to deny. When 
he rants and renounces me, I can despise him ; 
but when he asks my pardon, with tears pleads 
to me the long and constant friendship between 
us, and calls heaven to witness that nothing 
upon earth is dear to him in comparison of me, 
then, I confess, I feel a stronger unquietness 
within me, and I would do anything to evade his 
importunity. Nothing is so great a violence to 
me as that which moves my compassion. I can 
resist with ease any sort of people but beggars. 
If this be a fault in me, 'tis at least a well-natured 
one; and therefore I hope you will forgive it 
me, you that can forgive me anything, you say, 
and be displeased with nothing whilst I love 
you ; may I never be pleased with anything when 
I do not. Yet I could beat you for writing this 
last strange letter ; was there ever anything said 
like ? If I had but a vanity that the world 
should admire me, I would not care what they 
talked of me. In earnest, I believe there is 
nobody displeased that people speak well of them, 
and reputation is esteemed by all of much greater 
value than life itself. Yet let me tell you soberly, 



228 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

that with all my vanity I could be very well 
contented nobody should blame me or any action 
of mine, to quit all my part of the praises and 
admiration of the world ; and if I might be 
allowed to choose, my happiest part of it should 
consist in concealment, there should not be above 
two persons in the world know that there was 
such a one in it as your faithful. 

Stay ! I have not done yet. Here's another 
good side, I find; here, then, I'll tell you that 
I am not angry for all this. No, I allow it to 
your ill-humour, and that to the crosses that have 
been common to us ; but now that is cleared up, 
I should expect you should say finer things to me. 
Yet take heed of being like my neighbour's 
servant, he is so transported to find no rubs in 
his way that he knows not whether he stands on 
his head or his feet. 'Tis the most troublesome, 
busy talking little thing that ever was born ; his 
tongue goes like the clack of a mill, but to much 
less purpose, though if it were all oracle, my 
head would ache to hear that perpetual noise. I 
admire at her patience and her resolution that can 
laueh at his fooleries and love his fortune. You 
would wonder to see how tired she is with his 
impertinences, and yet how pleased to think she 
shall have a great estate with him. But this is 
the world, and she makes a part of it betimes. 
Two or three great glistening jewels have bribed 
her to wink at ail his faults, and she hears him 



The Last of Chicksands. 229 

as unmoved and unconcerned as if another were 
to marry him. 

What think you, have I not done fair for once, 
would you wish a longer letter ? See how kind 
I grow at parting ; who would not go into Ireland 
to have such another? In earnest now, go as 
soon as you can, 'twill be the better, I think, who 
am your faithful friend. 

Letter 50. — Wrest, in Bedfordshire, where Dorothy 
met her importunate lover, was the seat of Anthony 
Grey, Earl of Kent. There is said to be a picture there 
of Sir William Temple, — a copy of Lely's picture. 
Wrest Park is only a few miles from Chicksands. 

Sir, — Who would be kind to one that 
reproaches one so cruelly ? Do you think, in 
earnest, I could be satisfied the world should 
think me a dissembler, full of avarice or ambition ? 
No, you are mistaken ; but I'll tell you what I 
could suffer, that they should say I married where 
I had no inclination, because my friends thought 
it fit, rather than that I had run wilfully to my 
own ruin in pursuit of a fond passion of my own. 
To marry for love were no reproachful thing if 
we did not see that of the thousand couples that 
do it, hardly one can be brought for an example 
that it may be done and not repented afterwards. 
Is there anything thought so indiscreet, or that 
makes one more contemptible ? 'Tis true that I 



230 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

do firmly believe we should be, as you say, 
toujours les me sine s ; but if (as you confess) 'tis 
that which hardly happens once in two ages, 
we are not to expect the world should discern 
we were not like the rest. I'll tell you stories 
another time, you return them so handsomely upon 
me. Well, the next servant I tell you of shall 
not be called a whelp, if 'twere not to give you a 
stick to beat myself with. I would confess that 
I looked upon the impudence of this fellow as a 
punishment upon me for my over care in avoiding 
the talk of the world ; yet the case is very 
different, and no woman shall ever be blamed 
that an inconsolable person pretends to her when 
she gives no allowance to it, whereas none shall 
'scape that owns a passion, though in return of a 
person much above her. The little tailor that 
loved Queen Elizabeth was suffered to talk out, 
and none of her Council thought it necessary to 
stop his mouth ; but the Queen of Sweden's kind 
letter to the King of Scots was intercepted by her 
own ambassador, because he thought it was not 
for his mistress's honour (at least that was his 
pretended reason), and thought justifiable enough. 
But to come to my Beagle again. I have heard 
no more of him, though I have seen him since ; 
we met at Wrest again. I do not doubt but I shall 
be better able to resist his importunity than his 
tutor was ; but what do you think it is that gives 
him his encouragement ? He was told I had 



The Last of Chicksands. 231 

thought of marrying a gentleman that had not 
above two hundred pound a year, only out of my 
liking to his person. And upon that score his 
vanity allows him to think he may pretend as far 
as another. Thus you see 'tis not altogether 
without reason that I apprehend the noise of the 
world, since 'tis so much to my disadvantage. 

Is it in earnest that you say your being there 
keeps me from the town ? If so, 'tis very unkind. 
No, if I had gone, it had been to have waited on 
my neighbour, who has now altered her resolution 
and goes not herself. I have no business there, 
and am so little taken with the place that I could 
sit here seven years without so much as thinking 
once of going to it. 'Tis not likely, as you say, 
that you should much persuade your father to 
what you do not desire he should do ; but it is 
hard if all the testimonies of my kindness are not 
enough to satisfy without my publishing to the 
world that I can forget my friends and all my 
interest to follow my passion ; though, perhaps, 
it will admit of a good sense, 'tis that which 
nobody but you or I will give it, and we that are 
concerned in't can only say 'twas an act of great 
kindness and something romance, but must confess 
it had nothing of prudence, discretion, nor sober 
counsel in't. 'Tis not that I expect, by all your 
father's offers, to bring my friends to approve it. 
I don't deceive myself thus far, but I would not 
give them occasion to say that I hid myself from 



232 Letters from Dorothy Osdome. 

them in the doing it ; nor of making my action 
appear more indiscreet than it is. It will concern 
me that all the world should know what fortune 
you have, and upon what terms I marry you, that 
both may not be made to appear ten times worse 
than they are. 'Tis the general custom of all 
people to make those that are rich to have more 
mines of gold than are in the Indies, and such as 
have small fortunes to be beggars. If an action 
take a little in the world, it shall be magnified 
and brought into comparison with what the heroes 
or senators of Rome performed ; but, on the 
contrary, if it be once condemned, nothing can be 
found ill enough to compare it with ; and people 
are in pain till they find out some extravagant 
expression to represent the folly on't. Only there 
is this difference, that as all are more forcibly 
inclined to ill than good, they are much apter to 
exceed in detraction than in praises. Have I 
not reason then to desire this from you ; and may 
not my friendship have deserved it ? I know 
not ; 'tis as you think ; but if I be denied it, you 
will teach me to consider myself. 'Tis well the 
side ended here. If I had not had occasion to 
stop there, I might have gone too far, and showed 
that I had more passions than one. Yet 'tis fit 
you should know all my faults, lest you should 
repent your bargain when 'twill not be in your 
power to release yourself; besides, I may own 
my ill-humour to you that cause it ; 'tis the dis- 



The Last of Chicksands. 233 

content my crosses in this business have given 
me makes me thus peevish. Though I say it 
myself, before I knew you I was thought as well 
an humoured young person as most in England ; 
nothing displeased, nothing troubled me. When 
I came out of France, nobody knew me again. 
I was so altered, from a cheerful humour that was 
always alike, never over merry but always pleased, 
I was grown heavy and sullen, froward and dis- 
composed ; and that country which usually gives 
people a jolliness and gaiety that is natural to the 
climate, had wrought in me so contrary effects 
that I was as new a thing to them as my clothes. 
If you find all this to be sad truth hereafter, 
remember that I gave you fair warning. 

Here is a ring : it must not be at all wider than 
this, which is rather too big for me than other- 
wise ; but that is a good fault, and counted lucky 
by superstitious people. I am not so, though : 
'tis indifferent whether there be any word in't or 
not ; only 'tis as well without, and will make my 
wearing it the less observed. You must give 
Nan leave to cut a lock of your hair for me, too. 
Oh, my heart ! what a sigh was there ! I will 
not tell you how many this journey causes ; nor 
the fear and apprehensions I have for you. No, 
I long to be rid of you, am afraid you will not go 
soon enough : do not you believe this ? No, my 
dearest, I know you do not, whate'er you say, 
you cannot doubt that I am yours. 



234 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

Letter 51. — Lady Newport was the wife of the Earl of 
Newport, and mother of Lady Anne Blunt of whom 
we heard something in former letters. She is men- 
tioned as a prominent leader of London society. In 
March 1652 she is granted a pass to leave the country, 
on condition that she gives security to do nothing 
prejudicial to the State ; from which we may draw the 
inference that she was a political notability. 

My Lady Devonshire was Christian, daughter of 
Lord Bruce of Kinloss. She married William Caven- 
dish, second Earl of Devonshire. Her daughter Anne 
married Lord Rich, and died suddenly in 1638. Pomfret, 
Godolphin, and Falkland celebrated her virtues in verse, 
and Waller wrote her funeral hymn, which is still known 
to some of us, — 

The Lady Rich is dead. 
Heartrending news ! and dreadful to those few 
Who her resemble and her steps pursue, 
That Death should licence have to range among 
The fair, the wise, the virtuous, and the young. 

It was the only son of Lady Rich who married 
Frances Cromwell. 

Lord Warwick was the father of Robert, Lord Rich, 
and we may gather from this letter that, at Lady 
Devonshire's instigation, he had interfered in a proposed 
second marriage between his son and some fair un- 
known. 

Parthenissa is only just out. It is the latest thing 
in literary circles. We find it advertised in Mercurius 
Politicns, 19th January 1654: — "Parthenissa, that most 
famous romance, composed by the Lord Broghill, and 
dedicated to the Lady Northumberland." It is a 
romance of the style of Clcopatre and Cyrus, to enjoy 
which in the nineteenth century would require a curious 



The Last of Chicksands. 235 

and acquired taste. Uilhistre Bassa was a romance of 
Scuderi ; and the passage in the epistle to which Dorothy 
refers, — we quote it from a translation by one Henry 
Cogan, 1652, — runs as follows : "And if you see not my 
hero persecuted with love by women, it is not because 
he was not amiable, and that he could not be loved, but 
because it would clash with civility in the persons of 
ladies, and with true resemblance in that of men, who 
rarely show themselves cruel unto them, nor in doing it 
could have any good grace." 



Sir, — The lady was in the right. You are a 
very pretty gentleman and a modest ; were there 
ever such stones as these you tell ? The best 
on't is, I believe none of them unless it be that 
of my Lady Newport, which I must confess is so 
like her that if it be not true 'twas at least 
excellently well fancied. But my Lord Rich was 
not caught, tho' he was near it. My Lady 
Devonshire, whose daughter his first wife was, 
has engaged my Lord Warwick to put a stop to 
the business. Otherwise, I think his present 
want of fortune, and the little sense of honour 
he has, might have been prevailed on to marry 
her. 

'Tis strange to see the folly that possesses the 
young people of this age, and the liberty they 
take to themselves. I have the charity to believe 
they appear very much worse than they are, and 
that the want of a Court to govern themselves by 
is in great part the cause of their ruin ; though 



236 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

that was no perfect school of virtue, yet Vice 
there wore her mask, and appeared so unlike 
herself that she gave no scandal. Such as were 
really discreet as they seemed to be gave good 
example, and the eminency of their condition 
made others strive to imitate them, or at least 
they durst not own a contrary course. All who 
had good principles and inclinations were en- 
couraged in them, and such as had neither were 
forced to put on a handsome disguise that they 
might not be out of countenance at themselves. 
'Tis certain (what you say) that where divine or 
human laws are not positive we may be our own 
judges ; nobody can hinder us, nor is it in itself 
to be blamed. But, sure, it is not safe to take 
all liberty that is allowed us, — there are not many 
that are sober enough to be trusted with the 
government of themselves ; and because others 
judge us with more severity than our indulgence 
to ourselves will permit, it must necessarily follow 
that 'tis safer being ruled by their opinions than 
by our own. I am disputing again, though you 
told me my fault so plainly. 

I'll give it over, and tell you that Parthenissa 
is now my company. My brother sent it down, 
and I have almost read it. 'Tis handsome 
language ; you would know it to be writ by a 
person of good quality though you were not told 
it ; but, on the whole, I am not very much taken 
with it. All the stories have too near a resem- 



The Last of ' Chick sands. 237 

blance with those of other romances, there is 
nothing new or surprenant in them ; the ladies 
are all so kind they make no sport, and I meet 
only with one that took me by doing a handsome 
thing of the kind. She was in a besieged town, 
and persuaded all those of her sex to go out with 
her to the enemy (which were a barbarous people) 
and die by their swords, that the provisions of the 
town miofht last the longer for such as were able 
to do service in defending it. But how angry 
was I to see him spoil this again by bringing out 
a letter this woman left behind her for the 
governor of the town, where she discovers a 
passion for him, and makes that the reason why 
she did it. I confess I have no patience for our 
faiseurs de Romance when they make a woman 
court. It will never enter into my head that 'tis 
possible any woman can love where she is not 
first loved, and much less that if they should do 
that, they could have the face to own it. Me- 
thinks he that writes Uillustre Bassa says well 
in his epistle that we are not to imagine his hero 
to be less taking than those of other romances 
because the ladies do not fall in love with him 
whether he will or not. 'Twould be an injury to 
the ladies to suppose they could do so, and a 
greater to his hero's civility if he should put him 
upon being cruel to them, since he was to love 
but one. Another fault I find, too, in the style — 
'tis affected. Ambitioned is a great word with 



238 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

him, and ignore ; my concern, or of great concern, 
is, it seems, properer than concernment : and 
though he makes his people say fine handsome 
things to one another, yet they are not easy and 
naive like the French, and there is a little harsh- 
ness in most of the discourse that one would take 
to be the fault of a translator rather than of an 
author. But perhaps I like it the worse for 
having a piece of Cyrus by me that I am hugely 
pleased with, and that I would fain have you 
read : I'll send it you. At least read one story 
that I'll mark you down, if you have time for no 
more. I am glad you stay to wait on your sister. 
I would have my gallant civil to all, much more 
when it is so due, and kindness too. 

I have the cabinet, and 'tis in earnest a pretty 
one ; though you will not own it for a present, 
I'll keep it as one, and 'tis like to be yours no 
more but as 'tis mine. I'll warrant you would 
ne'er have thought of making me a present of 
charcoal as my servant James would have done, 
to warm my heart I think he meant it. But the 
truth is, I had been inquiring for some (as 'tis a 
commodity scarce enough in this country), and he 
hearing it, told the baily [bailiff ?] he would give 
him some if 'twere for me. But this is not all. 
I cannot forbear telling you the other day he 
made me a visit, and I, to prevent his making 
discourse to me, made Mrs. Goldsmith and Jane 
sit by all the while. But he came better provided 



The Last of Chicksands. 239 

than I could have imagined. He brought a letter 
with him, and gave it me as one he had met with 
directed to me, he thought it came out of North- 
amptonshire. I was upon my guard, and suspect- 
ing all he said, examined him so strictly where he 
had it before I would open it, that he was hugely 
confounded, and I confirmed that 'twas his. I 
laid it by and wished that they would have left us, 
that I might have taken notice on't to him. But 
I had forbid it them so strictly before, that they 
offered not to stir farther than to look out of 
window, as not thinking there was any necessity 
of giving us their eyes as well as their ears ; but 
he that saw himself discovered took that time to 
confess to me (in a whispering voice that I could 
hardly hear myself) that the letter (as my Lord 
Broghill says) was of great concern to him, and 
begged I would read it, and give him my answer. 
I took it up presently, as if I had meant it, but 
threw it, sealed as it was, into the fire, and told 
him (as softly as he had spoke to me) I thought 
that the quickest and best way of answering it. 
He sat awhile in great disorder, without speaking 
a word, and so ris and took his leave. Now 
what think you, shall I ever hear of him more ? 

You do not thank me for using your rival so 
scurvily nor are not jealous of him, though your 
father thinks my intentions were not handsome 
towards you, which methinks is another argument 
that one is not to be one's own judge ; for I am 



240 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

very confident they were, and with his favour 
shall never believe otherwise. I am sure I have 
no ends to serve of my own in what I did, — it 
could be no advantage to me that had firmly 
resolved not to marry ; but I thought it might be 
an injury to you to keep you in expectation of 
what was never likely to be, as I apprehended. 
Why do I enter into this wrangling discourse ? 
Let your father think me what he pleases, if he 
ever comes to know me, the rest of my actions 
shall justify me in this; if he does not, I'll begin 
to practise on him (what you so often preached to 
me) to neglect the report of the world, and satisfy 
myself in my own innocency. 

'Twill be pleasinger to you, I am sure, to tell 
you how fond I am of your lock. Well, in 
earnest now, and setting aside all compliments, 
I never saw finer hair, nor of a better colour ; but 
cut no more on't, I would not have it spoiled for 
the world. If you love me, be careful on't. I am 
combing, and curling, and kissing this lock all 
day, and dreaming on't all night. The ring, too, 
is very well, only a little of the biggest. Send 
me a tortoise one that is a little less than that 
I sent for a pattern. I would not have the rule 
so absolutely true without exception that hard 
hairs be ill-natured, for then I should be so. But 
I can allow that all soft hairs are good, and so 
are you, or I am deceived as much as you are 
if you think I do not love you enough. Tell me, 



The Last of Ckicksands. 241 

my dearest, am I ? You will not be if you think 
I am 

Yours. 

Letter 52. — It is interesting to find Dorothy reading 
the good Jeremy Taylor's Holy Living, a book too little 
known in this day. For amidst its old-fashioned piety 
there are many sentiments of practical goodness, ex- 
pressed with clear insistence, combined with a quaint 
grace of literary style which we have long ago cast 
aside in the pursuit of other things. Dorothy loved 
this book, and knew it well. Compare the following 
extract from the chapter on Christian Justice with what 
Dorothy has written in this letter. Has she been 
recently reading this passage ? Perhaps she has ; but 
more probably it is the recollection of what is well 
known that she is reproducing from a memory not 
unstored with such learning. Thus writes Dr. Taylor : 
" There is very great peace and immunity from sin in 
resigning our wills up to the command of others : for, 
provided our duty to God be secured, their commands 
are warrants to us in all things else ; and the case of 
conscience is determined, if the command be evident 
and pressing : and it is certain, the action that is but 
indifferent and without reward, if done only upon our 
own choice, is an action of duty and of religion, and 
rewardable by the grace and favour of God, if done in 
obedience to the command of our superiors." 

Little and Great Brickhill, where Temple is to receive 
a letter from Dorothy, kindly favoured by Mr. Gibson, 
stand due west of Chicksands some seventeen miles, and 
about forty-six miles along the high-road from London 
to Chester. Temple would probably arrange to stay 
there, receive Dorothy's letter, and send one in return. 

Q 



242 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

Dorothy has apparently tired of Calprenede and 
Scuderi, of CUopdtre and Cyrus, and has turned to 
travels to amuse her. Fernando Mendez Pinto did, I 
believe, actually visit China, and is said to have landed 
in the Gulf of Pekin. What he writes of China seems 
to bear some resemblance to what later writers have 
said. It is hard to say how and where his conversations 
with the Chinese were carried on, as he himself admits 
that he did not understand one word of the language. 

Lady Grey's sister, Mrs. Pooley, is unknown to history. 
Of Mr. Fish we know, as has already been said, nothing 
more than that he was Dorothy's lover, and a native 
of Bedfordshire, probably her near neighbour. James 

B must be another lover, and he is altogether 

untraceable. Mrs. Goldsmith is, as you will remember, 
wife of the Vicar of Campton. The Valentine stories 
will date this letter for us as written in the latter half 
February. 

Sir, — They say you gave order for this waste- 
paper ; how do you think I could ever fill it, or 
with what ? I am not always in the humour to 
wrangle and dispute. For example now, I had 
rather agree to what you say, than tell you that 
Dr. Taylor (whose devote you must know I am) 
says there is a great advantage to be gained in 
resigning up one's will to the command of another, 
because the same action which in itself is wholly 
indifferent, if done upon our own choice, becomes 
an act of duty and religion if done in obedience to 
the command of any person whom nature, the 
laws, or ourselves have given a power over us ; 



The Last of Chicksands. 243 

so that though in an action already done we can 
only be our own judges, because we only know 
with what intentions it was done, yet in any we 
intend, 'tis safest, sure, to take the advice of 
another. Let me practise this towards you as 
well as preach it to you, and I'll lay a wager you 
will approve on't. But I am chiefly of your 
opinion that contentment (which the Spanish 
proverb says is the best paint) gives the lustre 
to all one's enjoyment, puts a beauty upon things 
which without it would have none, increases it 
extremely where 'tis already in some degree, and 
without it, all that we call happiness besides loses 
its property. What is contentment, must be left 
to every particular person to judge for themselves, 
since they only know what is so to them which 
differs in all according to their several humours. 
Only you and I agree 'tis to be found by us in 
a true friend, a moderate fortune, and a retired 
life ; the last I thank God I have in perfection. 
My cell is almost finished, and when you come 
back you'll find me in it, and bring me both the 
rest I hope. 

I find it much easier to talk of your coming 
back than your going. You shall never persuade 
me I send you this journey. No, pray let it be 
your father's commands, or a necessity your 
fortune puts upon you. 'Twas unkindly said to 
tell me I banish you ; your heart never told it 
you, I dare swear ; nor mine ne'er thought it 



244 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

No, my dear, this is our last misfortune, let's bear 
it nobly. Nothing shows we deserve a punish- 
ment so much as our murmuring at it ; and the 
way to lessen those we feel, and to 'scape those 
we fear, is to suffer patiently what is imposed, 
making a virtue of necessity. 'Tis not that I 
have less kindness or more courage than you, but 
that mistrusting myself more (as I have more 
reason), I have armed myself all that is possible 
against this occasion. I have thought that there is 
not much difference between your being at Dublin 
or at London, as our affairs stand. You can write 
and hear from the first, and I should not see you 
sooner if you continued still at the last. 

Besides, I hope this journey will be of advan- 
tage to us ; when your father pressed your coming 
over he told you, you needed not doubt either his 
power or his will. Have I done anything since 
that deserves he should alter his intentions towards 
us ? Or has any accident lessened his power ? 
If neither, we may hope to be happy, and the 
sooner for this journey. I dare not send my boy 
to meet you at Brickhill nor any other of the 
servants, they are all too talkative. But I can 
get Mr. Gibson, if you will, to bring you a letter. 
'Tis a civil, well-natured man as can be, of ex- 
cellent principles and exact honesty. I durst 
make him my confessor, though he is not obliged 
by his orders to conceal anything that is told him. 
But you must tell me then which Brickhill it is 



The Last of Chicksands. 245 

you stop at, Little or Great ; they are neither of 
them far from us. If you stay there you will 
write back by him, will you not, a long letter ? I 
shall need it ; besides that, you owe it me for the 
last being so short. Would you saw what letters 
my brother writes me ; you are not half so kind. 
Well, he is always in the extremes ; since our last 
quarrel he has courted me more than ever he did 
in his life, and made me more presents, which, 
considering his humour, is as great a testimony of 
his kindness as 'twas of Mr. Smith's to my Lady 
Sunderland when he presented Mrs. Camilla. 
He sent me one this week which, in earnest, is as 
pretty a thing as I have seen, a China trunk, and 
the finest of the kind that e'er I saw. By the 
way (this puts me in mind on't), have you read 
the story of China written by a Portuguese, 
Fernando Mendez Pinto, I think his name is ? 
If you have not, take it with you, 'tis as diverting 
a book of the kind as ever I read, and is as 
handsomely written. You must allow him the 
privilege of a traveller, and he does not abuse it. 
His lies are as pleasant harmless ones, as lies can 
be, and in no great number considering the scope 
he has for them. There is one in Dublin now, 
that ne'er saw much farther, has told me twice 
as many (I dare swear) of Ireland. If I should 
ever live to see that country and be in't, I should 
make excellent sport with them. 'Tis a sister 
of my Lady Grey's, her name is Pooley ; her 



246 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

husband lives there too, but I am afraid in no 
very good condition. They were but poor, and 
she lived here with her sisters when I knew her ; 
'tis not half a year since she went, I think. If 
you hear of her, send me word how she makes a 
shift there. 

And hark you, can you tell me whether the 
gentleman that lost a crystal box the 1st of 
February in St. James' Park or Old Spring 
Gardens has found it again or not, I have strong 
curiosity to know ? Tell me, and I'll tell you 
something that you don't know, which is, that I 
am your Valentine and you are mine. I did not 
think of drawing any, but Mrs. Goldsmith and 
Jane would need make me some for them and 
myself; so I writ down our three names, and 
for men Mr. Fish, James B., and you. I cut 
them all equal and made them up myself before 
them, and because I would owe it wholly to my 
good fortune if I were pleased. I made both 
them choose first that had never seen what was 
in them, and they left me you. Then I made 
them choose again for theirs, and my name was 
left. You cannot imagine how I was delighted 
with this little accident, but by taking notice that 
I cannot forbear telling you it. I was not half so 
pleased with my encounter next morning. I was 
up early, but with no design of getting another 
Valentine, and going out to walk in my night- 
cloak and night-gown, I met Mr. Fish going a 



The Last of Chicksands. 247 

hunting, I think he was ; but he stayed to tell me 
I was his Valentine ; and I should not have been 
rid on him quickly, if he had not thought himself 
a little too negligSe ; his hair was not powdered, 
and his clothes were but ordinary ; to say truth, 
he looked then methought like other mortal 
people. Yet he was as handsome as your 
Valentine. I'll swear you wanted one when 
you took her, and had very ill fortune that 
nobody met you before her. Oh, if I had not 
terrified my little gentleman when he brought 
me his own letter, now sure I had had him for 
my Valentine ! 

On my conscience, I shall follow your counsel 
if ere he comes again, but I am persuaded he will 
not. I writ my brother that story for want of 
something else, and he says I did very well, 
there was no other way to be rid on him ; and 
he makes a remark upon't that I can be severe 
enough when I please, and wishes I would 
practise it somewhere else as well as there. 
Can you tell where that is ? I never under- 
stand anybody that does not speak plain English, 
and he never uses that to me of late, but tells 
me the finest stories (I may apply them how I 
please) of people that have married when they 
thought there was great kindness, and how miser- 
ably they have found themselves deceived ; how 
despicable they have made themselves by it, 
and how sadly they have repented on't. He 



248 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

reckons more inconveniency than you do that 
follows good nature, says it makes one credulous, 
apt to be abused, betrays one to the canning of 
people that make advantage on't, and a thousand 
such things which I hear half asleep and half 
awake, and take little notice of, unless it be 
sometimes to say that with all these faults I 
would not be without it. No, in earnest, nor I 
could not love any person that I thought had it 
not to a good degree. 'Twas the first thing I 
liked in you, and without it I should never have 
liked anything. I know 'tis counted simple, but 
I cannot imagine why. 'Tis true some people 
have it that have not wit, but there are at least 
as many foolish people I have ever observed to 
be fullest of tricks, little ugly plots and designs, 
unnecessary disguises, and mean cunnings, which 
are the basest qualities in the world, and makes 
one the most contemptible, I think ; when I once 
discover them they lose their credit with me for 
ever. Some will say they are cunning only in their 
own defence, and that there is no living in this 
world without it ; but I cannot understand how 
anything more is necessary to one's own safety 
besides a prudent caution ; that I now think is, 
though I can remember when nobody could have 
persuaded me that anybody meant ill when it did 
not appear by their words and actions. I remem- 
ber my mother (who, if it may be allowed me to 
say it) was counted as wise a woman as most 



The Last of CJiicksands. 249 

in England, — when she seemed to distrust any- 
body, and saw I took notice on't, would ask if I 
did not think her too jealous and a little ill- 
natured. " Come, I know you do," says she, " if 
you would confess it, and I cannot blame you. 
When I was young as you are, I thought my 
father-in-law (who was a wise man) the most 
unreasonably suspicious man that ever was, and 
disliked him for it hugely ; but I have lived to see 
it is almost impossible to think people worse than 
they are, and so will you." I did not believe 
her, and less, that I should have more to say to 
you than this paper would hold. It shall never 
be said I began another at this time of night, 
though I have spent this idly, that should have 
told you with a little more circumstance how 
perfectly 

I am yours. 

Letter 53. — Dorothy's brother seems to have got hold 
of a new weapon of attack in Temple's religious opinions, 
which might have led to a strategic success in more 
skilful hands. He only manages to exasperate Dorothy 
with himself, not with Temple. As for Temple, he has 
not altogether escaped the censure of the orthodox. 
Gossiping Bishop Burnet, in one of his more ill-natured 
passages, tells us that Temple was an Epicurean, thinking 
religion to be fit only for the mob, and a corrupter of 
all that came near him. Unkind words these, with just, 
perhaps, those dregs of truth in them which make gossip 
so hard to bear patiently. Was it true, as Courtenay 
thinks, that jealousy of King William's attachment to 



250 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

Temple disturbed the episcopal equipoise of soul, render- 
ing his Lordship slanderous, even a backbiter ? 

Robin C. is probably one of the Cheeke family. 

Bagshawe is Edward Bagshawe the Elder, B.A. of 
Brasenose, Oxford, and of the Middle Temple, barrister- 
at-lavv. In the early part of the century he had been 
a Puritan among Puritans, and in the old hall of the 
Middle Temple had delivered two lectures to show that 
bishops may not meddle in civil affairs, and that a 
Parliament may be held without bishops ; questions still 
unsettled. Laud appears to have prohibited these 
lectures. Bagshawe in after life joined the King at 
Oxford, and suffered imprisonment at the hands of his 
former friends in the King's Bench Prison from 1644 to 
1646. Young Sir Harry Yelverton, Lady Ruthin's 
husband, broke a theological lance with his son, the 
younger Edward Bagshawe, to vindicate the cause of 
the Church of England. The elder Bagshawe died in 
1662, and was buried at Morton Pinckney, in North- 
amptonshire. How and why he railed at love and 
marriage it is impossible now to know. Edward 
Bagshawe the younger published in 1671 an Antidote 
against Mr. Baxters Treatise of Love and Marriage. 

The preaching woman at Somerset House was, in all 
probability, Mrs. Hannah Trupnel. She, that in April 
of this year is spoken of, in an old news-book, as having 
" lately acted her part in a trance so many days at 
Whitehall." She appears to have been full of mystical, 
anti-Puritan prophecies, and was indicted in Cornwall as 
a rogue and vagabond, convicted and bound over in 
recognizances to behave herself in future. After this 
she abandoned her design of passing from county to 
county disaffecting the people with her prophecies, and 
we hear no more of her. 



The Last of Chicksands. 251 

Sir, — Tis well you have given over your 
reproaches ; I can allow you to tell me of my 
faults kindly and like a friend. Possibly it is a 
weakness in me to aim at the world's esteem, as 
if I could not be happy without it ; but there are 
certain things that custom has made almost of 
absolute necessity, and reputation I take to be 
one of these. If one could be invisible I should 
choose that ; but since all people are seen or 
known, and shall be talked of in spite of their 
teeth, who is it that does not desire, at least, that 
nothing of ill may be said of them, whether justly 
or otherwise ? I never knew any so satisfied 
with their own innocence as to be content that 
the world should think them guilty. Some out 
of pride have seemed to contemn ill reports when 
they have found they could not avoid them, but 
none out of strength of reason, though many 
have pretended to it. No, not my Lady New- 
castle with all her philosophy, therefore you must 
not expect it from me. I shall never be ashamed 
to own that I have a particular value for you 
above any other, but 'tis not the greatest merit 
of person will excuse a want of fortune ; in some 
degree I think it will, at least with the most 
rational part of the world, and, as far as that will 
read, I desire it should. I would not have the 
world believe I married out of interest and to 
please my friends ; I had much rather they should 
know I chose the person, and took his fortune, 



252 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

because 'twas necessary, and that I prefer a 
competency with one I esteem infinitely before 
a vast estate in other hands. 'Tis much easier, 
sure, to get a good fortune than a good husband ; 
but whosoever marries without any consideration 
of fortune shall never be allowed to do it, but of 
so reasonable an apprehension the whole world 
(without any reserve) shall pronounce they did it 
merely to satisfy their giddy humour. 

Besides, though you imagine 'twere a great 
argument of my kindness to consider nothing 
but you, in earnest I believe 'twould be an 
injury to you. I do not see that it puts any 
value upon men when women marry them for 
love (as they term it) ; 'tis not their merit, but 
our folly that is always presumed to cause it ; and 
would it be any advantage to you to have your 
wife thought an indiscreet person ? All this I 
can say to you ; but when my brother disputes it 
with me I have other arguments for him, and I 
drove him up so close t'other night that for want 
of a better gap to get out at he was fain to say 
that he feared as much your having a fortune as 
your having none, for he saw you held my Lord 
Lt-'s [? Lieutenant's] principles. That religion 
and honour were things you did not consider at 
all, and that he was confident you would take any 
engagement, serve in employment, or do anything 
to advance yourself. I had no patience for this. 
To say you were a beggar, your father not worth 



The Last of Chicksands. 253 

^4000 in the whole world, was nothing in com- 
parison of having no religion nor no honour. I 
forgot all my disguise, and we talked ourselves 
weary ; he renounced me, and I defied him, but 
both in as civil language as it would permit, and 
parted in great anger with the usual ceremony of 
a leg and a courtesy, that you would have died 
with laughing to have seen us. 

The next day I, not being at dinner, saw him 
not till night ; then he came into my chamber, 
where I supped but he did not. Afterwards Mr. 
Gibson and he and I talked of indifferent thines 
till all but we two went to bed. Then he sat 
half-an-hour and said not one word, nor I to him. 
At last, in a pitiful tone, " Sister," says he, " I 
have heard you say that when anything troubles 
you, of all things you apprehend going to bed, 
because there it increases upon you, and you lie 
at the mercy of all your sad thought, which the 
silence and darkness of the ni^ht adds a horror 
to ; I am at that pass now. I vow to God I 
would not endure another night like the last to 
gain a crown." I, who resolved to take no notice 
what ailed him, said 'twas a knowledge I had 
raised from my spleen only, and so fell into a 
discourse of melancholy and the causes, and from 
that (I know not how) into religion ; and we talked 
so long of it, and so devoutly, that it laid all our 
anger. We grew to a calm and peace with all 
the world. Two hermits conversing in a cell they 



254 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

equally inhabit, ne'er expressed more humble, 
charitable kindness, one towards another, than 
we. He asked my pardon and I his, and he has 
promised me never to speak of it to me whilst he 
lives, but leave the event to God Almighty ; until 
he sees it done, he will always be the same to me 
that he is ; then he shall leave me, he says, not 
out of want of kindness to me, but because he 
cannot see the ruin of a person that he loves so 
passionately, and in whose happiness he has laid 
up all his. These are the terms we are at, and I 
am confident he will keep his word with me, so 
that you have no reason to fear him in any 
respect ; for though he should break his promise, 
he should never make me break mine. No, let 
me assure you this rival, nor any other, shall ever 
alter me, therefore spare your jealousy, or turn it 
all into kindness. 

I will write every week, and no miss of letters 
shall give us any doubts of one another. Time 
nor accidents shall not prevail upon our hearts, 
and, if God Almighty please to bless us, we will 
meet the same we are, or happier. I will do all 
you bid me. I will pray, and wish, and hope, but 
you must do so too, then, and be so careful of 
yourself that I may have nothing to reproach you 
with when you come back. 

That vile wench lets you see all my scribbles, 
I believe ; how do you know I took care your 
hair should not be spoiled ? 'Tis more than ere 



The Last of Chick sands. 255 

you did, I think, you are so negligent on't, and 
keep it so ill, 'tis pity you should have it. May 
you have better luck in the cutting it than I had 
with mine. I cut it two or three years agone, and 
it never grew since. Look to it ; if I keep the 
lock you give me better than you do all the rest, 
I shall not spare you ; expect to be soundly 
chidden. What do you mean to do with all my 
letters ? Leave them behind you ? If you do, 
it must be in safe hands, some of them concern 
you, and me, and other people besides us very 
much, and they will almost load a horse to carry. 
Does not my cousin at Moor Park mistrust us 
a little ? I have a great belief they do. I am 

sure Robin C told my brother of it since I 

was last in town. Of all things, I admire my 
cousin Molle has not got it by the end, he that 
frequents that family so much, and is at this 
instant at Kimbolton. If he has, and conceals it, 
he is very discreet ; I could never discern by 
anything that he knew it. I shall endeavour to 
accustom myself to the noise on't, and make it as 
easy to me as I can, though I had much rather it 
were not talked of till there were an absolute 
necessity of discovering it, and you can oblige me 
in nothing more than in concealing it. I take it 
very kindly that you promise to use all your 
interest in your father to persuade him to endea- 
vour our happiness, and he appears so confident 
of his power that it gives me great hopes. 



256 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

Dear ! shall we ever be so happy, think you ? 
Ah ! I dare not hope it. Yet 'tis not want of 
love gives me these fears. No, in earnest, I 
think (nay, I'm sure) I love you more than ever, 
and 'tis that only gives me these despairing 
thoughts ; when I consider how small a propor- 
tion of happiness is allowed in this world, and 
how great mine would be in a person for whom 
I have a passionate kindness, and who has the 
same for me. As it is infinitely above what I can 
deserve, and more than God Almighty usually 
allots to the best people, I can find nothing in 
reason but seems to be against me ; and, methinks, 
'tis as vain in me to expect it as 'twould be to 
hope I might be a queen (if that were really as 
desirable a thing as 'tis thought to be) ; and it is 
just it should be so. 

We complain of this world, and the variety of 
crosses and afflictions it abounds in, and yet for 
all this who is weary on't (more than in discourse), 
who thinks with pleasure of leaving it, or prepar- 
ing for the next ? We see old folks, who have 
outlived all the comforts of life, desire to continue 
in it, and nothing can wean us from the folly of 
preferring a mortal being, subject to great infirmity 
and unavoidable decays, before an immortal one, 
and all the glories that are promised with it. Is 
this not very like preaching ? Well, 'tis too good 
for you ; you shall have no more on't. I am afraid 
you are not mortified enough for such discourse 



The Last of Chicksanas. 257 

to work upon (though I am not of my brother's 
opinion, neither, that you have no religion in 
you). In earnest, I never took anything he ever 
said half so ill, as nothing, sure, is so great an 
injury. It must suppose one to be a devil in 
human shape. Oh, me ! now I am speaking of 
religion, let me ask you is not his name Bagshawe 
that you say rails on love and women ? Because 
I heard one t'other day speaking of him, and 
commending his wit, but withal, said he was a 
perfect atheist. If so, I can allow him to hate us, 
and love, which, sure, has something of divine in 
it, since God requires it of us. I am coming into 
my preaching vein again. What think you, were 
it not a good way of preferment as the times are ? 
If you'll advise me to it I'll venture. The woman 
at Somerset House was cried up mightily. Think 
on't. 

Dear, I am yours. 



Letter 54 — Temple has really started on his journey, 
and is now past Brickhill, far away in the north of 
England. The journey to Ireland was made via 
Holyhead in those days as it is now. It was a four 
days' journey to Chester, and no good road after. The 
great route through Wales to Holyhead was in such a 
state that in 1685 the Viceroy going to Ireland was five 
hours in travelling the fourteen miles from St. Asaph to 
Conway ; between Conway and Beaumaris he walked ; 
and his lady was carried in a litter. A carriage was 
often taken to pieces at Conway, and carried to the 



258 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

Menai Straits on the peasants' shoulders round the 
dangerous cliff of Penmaenmavvr. Mr. B. and Mr. 
D. remain mysterious symbolic initials of gossip and 
scandalmongering. St. Gregory's, near St. Paul's, was 
a church entirely destroyed by the great fire. 

Sir John Tufton of " The Mote," near Maidstone, 
married Mary, the third daughter and coheiress of 
Thomas Lord Wotton. 



For your Master [seal with coat-of-arms], 
when your Mistress pleases. 

Sir, — You bid me write every week, and I am 
doing it without considering- how it will come to 
you. Let Nan look to that, with whom, I 
suppose, you have left the orders of conveyance. 
I have your last letter ; but Jane, to whom you 
refer me, is not yet come down. On Tuesday I 
expect her ; and if she be not engaged, I shall 
give her no cause hereafter to believe that she is 
a burden to me, though I have no employment 
for her but that of talking to me when I am in 
the humour of saying nothing. Your dog is 
come too, and I have received him with all the 
kindness that is due to anything you send. I 
have defended him from the envy and malice of 
a troop of greyhounds that used to be in favour 
with me ; and he is so sensible of my care over 
him, that he is pleased with nobody else, and 
follows me as if we had been of long acquaint- 
ance. 'Tis well you are gone past my recovery. 



The Last of Chicksands. 259 

My heart has failed me twenty times since you 
went, and, had you been within my call, I had 
brought you back as often, though I know thirty 
miles' distance and three hundred are the same 
thing. You will be so kind, I am sure, as to 
write back by the coach and tell me what the 
success of your journey so far has been. After 
that, I expect no more (unless you stay for a 
wind) till you arrive at Dublin. I pity your 
sister in earnest ; a sea voyage is welcome to no 
lady ; but you are beaten to it, and 'twill become 
you, now you are a conductor, to show your valour 
and keep your company in heart. When do you 
think of coming back again ? I am asking that 
before you are at your journey's end. You will 
not take it ill that I desire it should be soon. 
In the meantime, I'll practise all the rules you 
give me. Who told you I go to bed late? In 
earnest, they do me wrong : I have been faulty 
in that point heretofore, I confess, but 'tis a good 
while since I gave it over with my reading o' 
nights ; but in the daytime I cannot live without 
it, and 'tis all my diversion, and infinitely more 
pleasing to me than any company but yours. 
And yet I am not given to it in any excess now ; 
I have been very much more. Tis Jane, I know, 
tells all these tales of me. I shall be even with 
her some time or other, but for the present I long 
for her with some impatience, that she may tell me 
all you have told her. 



260 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

Never trust me if I had not a suspicion from 

the first that 'twas that ill-looked fellow B who 

made that story Mr. D told you. That which 

o-ave me the first inclination to that belief was the 
circumstance you told me of their seeing me at 
St. Gregory's. For I remembered to have seen 

B there, and had occasion to look up into 

the gallery where he sat, to answer a very civil 
salute given me from thence by Mr. Freeman, and 

saw B in a great whisper with another that 

sat next him, and pointing to me. If Mr. D 

had not been so nice in discovering his name, 
you would quickly have been cured of your 
jealousy. Never believe I have a servant that 
I do not tell you of as soon as I know it myself. 
As, for example, my brother Peyton has sent to 
me, for a countryman of his, Sir John Tufton, — 
he married one of my Lady Wotton's heirs, who 
is lately dead, — and to invite me to think of it. 
Besides his person and his fortune, without excep- 
tion, he tells me what an excellent husband he 
was to this lady that's dead, who was but a 
crooked, ill-favoured woman, only she brought 
him ^1500 a year. I tell him I believe Sir John 
Tufton could be content, I were so too upon the 
same terms. But his loving his first wife can be 
no argument to persuade me ; for if he had loved 
her as he ought to do, I cannot hope he should 
love another so well as I expect anybody should 
that has me ; and if he did not love her, I have 



The Last of Chicksands. 261 

less to expect he should me. I do not care for 
a divided heart ; I must have all or none, at least 
the first place in it. Poor James, I have broke 
his. He says 'twould pity you to hear what sad 
complaints he makes ; and, but that he has not 
the heart to hang himself, he would be very well 
contented to be out of the world. 

That house of your cousin R is fatal to 

physicians. Dr. Smith that took it is dead 
already ; but maybe this was before you went, 
and so is no news to you. I shall be sending 
you all I hear ; which, though it cannot be much, 
living as I do, yet it may be more than ventures 
into Ireland. I would have you diverted, whilst 
you are there, as much as possible ; but not 
enough to tempt you to stay one minute longer 
than your father and your business obliges you. 
Alas ! I have already repented all my share in 
your journey, and begin to find I am not half 
so valiant as I sometimes take myself to be. The 
knowledge that our interests are the same, and 
that I shall be happy or unfortunate in your 
person as much or more than in my own, does not 
give me that confidence you speak of. It rather 
increases my doubts, and I durst trust your 
fortune alone, rather than now that mine is 
joined with it. Yet I will hope yours may be so 
good as to overcome the ill of mine, and shall 
endeavour to mend my own all I can by striving 
to deserve it, maybe, better. My dearest, will 



262 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

you pardon me that I am forced to leave you 
so soon ? The next shall be longer, though I can 
never be more than I am 

Yours. 

Letter 55. — This sad letter, fully dated 18th March 
1654, was written after Sir Peter Osborne was buried 
in Campton Church. Even as Dorothy wrote this, the 
stone-mason might be slowly carving words that may 
be read to this day : " The maintainer of divine exercises, 
the friend to the poor." Her father is no longer living, 
and she is now even more lonely than before. To 
depend upon kindred that are not friends, to be under 
the protection of a brother who is her lover's avowed 
enemy, this is her lot in life, unless Temple can release 
her from it. Alas ! poor Dorothy, who will now forbear 
to pity you ? 

March the 18th, 1654. 

How true it is that a misfortune never comes 
single ; we live in expectation of some one happi- 
ness that we propose to ourselves, an age almost, 
and perhaps miss it at the last ; but sad accidents 
have wings to overtake us, and come in flocks 
like ill-boding ravens. You were no sooner gone 
but (as if that had not been enough) I lost the 
best father in the world ; and though, as to him- 
self, it was an infinite mercy in God Almighty to 
take him out of a world that can be pleasing to 
none, and was made more uneasy to him by many 
infirmities that were upon him, yet to me it is 
an affliction much greater than people judge it. 



The Last of Chicksands. 263 

Besides all that is due to nature and the memory 
of many (more than ordinary) kindnesses received 
from him, besides what he was to all that knew 
him, and what he was to me in particular, I am 
left by his death in the condition (which of all 
others) is the most unsupportable to my nature, 
to depend upon kindred that are not friends, and 
that, though I pay as much as I should do to a 
stranger, yet think they do me a courtesy. I 
expect my eldest brother to-day ; if he comes, 
I shall be able to tell you before I seal this up 
where you are likely to find me. If he offers me 
to stay here, this hole will be more agreeable to 
my humour than any place that is more in the 
world. I take it kindly that you used art to 
conceal our story and satisfy my nice apprehen- 
sions, but I'll not impose that constraint upon 
you any longer, for I find my kind brother 
publishes it with more earnestness than ever I 
strove to conceal it ; and with more disadvantage 
than anybody else would. Now he has tried all 
ways to do what he desires, and finds it is in vain, 
he resolves to revenge himself upon me, by 
representing this action in such colours as will 
amaze all people that know me, and do not know 
him enough to discern his malice to me ; he 
is not able to forbear showing it now, when 
my condition deserves pity from all the world, 
I think, and that he himself has newly lost 
a father, as well as I ; but takes this time to 



264 Letters from Dorothy Osboi-ne. 

torment me, which appears (at least to me) so 
barbarous a cruelty, that though I thank God I 
have charity enough perfectly to forgive all the 
injury he can do me, yet I am afraid I shall never 
look upon him as a brother more. And now do 
you judge whether I am not very unhappy, and 
whether that sadness in my face you used to 
complain of was not suited to my fortune. You 
must confess it ; and that my kindness for you is 
beyond example, all these troubles are persecu- 
tions that make me weary of the world before my 
time, and lessen the concernment I have for you, 
and instead of being persuaded as they would 
have me by their malicious stories, methinks I 
am obliged to love you more in recompense of all 
the injuries they have done you upon my score. 
I shall need nothing but my own heart to fortify 
me in this resolution, and desire nothing in return 
of it but that your care of yourself may answer 
to that which I shall always have for your 
interests. 

I received your letter of the 10th of this month ; 
and I hope this will find you at your journey's 
end. In earnest, I have pitied your sister 
extremely, and can easily apprehend how trouble- 
some this voyage must needs be to her, by know- 
ing what others have been to me ; yet, pray 
assure her I would not scruple at undertaking it 
myself to gain such an acquaintance, and would 
go much farther than where (I hope) she now is 



The Last of Chick sands. 265 

to serve her. I am afraid she will not think me 
a fit person to choose for a friend, that cannot 
agree with my own brother; but I must trust 
you to tell my story for me, and will hope for a 
better character from you than he gives me ; who, 
lest I should complain, resolves to prevent me, 
and possess my friends first that he is the injured 
party. I never magnified my patience to you, 
but I begin to have a good opinion on't since 
this trial ; yet, perhaps, I have no reason, and 
it may be as well a want of sense in me as of 
passion ; however, you will not be displeased to 
know that I can endure all that he or anybody 
else can say, and that setting aside my father's 
death and your absence, I make nothing an 
affliction to me, though I am sorry, I confess, 
to see myself forc'd to keep such distances with 
one of his relations, because religion and nature 
and the custom of the world teaches otherwise. 
I see I shall not be able to satisfy you in this 
how I shall dispose of myself, for my brother 
is not come ; the next will certainly tell you. 
In the meantime, I expect with great impatience 
to hear of your safe arrival. 'Twas a disappoint- 
ment that you missed those fair winds. I pleased 
myself extremely with a belief that they had 
made your voyage rather a diversion than a 
trouble, either to you or your company, but I 
hope your passage was as happy, if not as sudden, 
as you expected it ; let me hear often from you, 



266 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

and long letters. I do not count this so. Have 
no apprehensions from me, but all the care of 
yourself that you please. My melancholy has no 
anger in it ; and I believe the accidents of my 
life would work more upon any other than they 
do upon me, whose humour is alway more 
prepared for them than that of gayer persons. 
I hear nothing that is worth your knowing ; when 
I do, you shall know it. Tell me if there's any- 
thing I can do for you, and assure yourself I am 
perfectly 

Yours. 



Letter 56. — Temple has reached Dublin at last, and 
begins to write from there. This letter also is dated, 
and from this time forth there is less trouble in arrang- 
ing the letters in order of date, as many of them have, 
at least, the day of the month, if nothing more. 

The Marquis of Hertford was the Duke of Somerset's 
great-grandson. He married Lady Arabella Stuart, 
daughter of Charles Stuart, Earl of Lennox, uncle of 
King James I., for which matrimonial adventure he was 
imprisoned in the Tower. His second wife was Frances, 
daughter of Robert, Earl of Essex, and sister to the 
great general of the Parliamentary Army. She was the 
mother of young Lord Beauchamp, whose death Dorothy 
deplores. He was twenty-eight years of age when he 
died. He married Mary, daughter of Lord Capel of 
Hadham, who afterwards married the Duke of Beaufort. 

Baptist Noel, Viscount Camden, was a noted loyalist. 
After the Restoration we find him appointed Lord- 
Lieutenant of Rutland. Of his duel with Mr. Stafford 



The Last of Chicksands. 267 

there seems to be no account. It did not carry him 
into the King's Bench Court, like Lord Chandos' duel, 
so history is silent about it. 



April the 2nd, 1654. 

Sir, — There was never any lady more surprised 
than I was with your last. I read it so coldly, 
and was so troubled to find that you were so 
forward on your journey ; but when I came to the 
last, and saw Dublin at the date, I could scarce 
believe my eyes. In earnest, it transported me 
so that I could not forbear expressing my joy in 
such a manner as had anybody been by to have 
observed me they would have suspected me no 
very sober person. 

You are safe arrived, you say, and pleased with 
the place already, only because you meet with a 
letter of mine there. In your next I expect some 
other commendation on't, or else I shall hardly 
make such haste to it as people here believe I 
will. 

All the servants have been to take their leaves 
on me, and say how sorry they are to hear I am 
going out of the land ; some beggar at the door 
has made so ill a report of Ireland to them that 
they pity me extremely, but you are pleased, I 
hope, to hear I am coming to you ; the next fair 
wind expect me. 'Tis not to be imagined the 
ridiculous stories they have made, nor how J. B. 
cries out on me for refusing him and choosing 



268 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

his chamber-fellow ; yet he pities me too, and 
swears I am condemned to be the miserablest 
person upon earth. With all his quarrel to me, 
he does not wish me so ill as to be married to the 
proudest, imperious, insulting, ill-natured man that 
ever was ; one that before he has had me a week 
shall use me with contempt, and believe that the 
favour was of his side. Is not this very comfort- 
able ? But, pray, make it no quarrel ; I make it 
none, I assure you. And though he knew you 
before I did, I do not think he knows you so 
well ; besides that, his testimony is not of much 
value. 

I am to spend this next week in taking leave 
of this country, and all the company in't, perhaps 
never to see it more. From hence I must go 
into Northamptonshire to my Lady Ruthin, and 
so to London, where I shall find my aunt and my 
brother Peyton, betwixt whom I think to divide 
this summer. 

Nothing has happened since you went worth 
your knowledge. My Lord Marquis Hertford 
has lost his son, my Lord Beauchamp, who has 
left a fine young widow. In earnest, 'tis great 
pity ; at the rate of our young nobility he was 
an extraordinary person, and remarkable for an 
excellent husband. My Lord Cambden, too, has 
fought with Mr. Stafford, but there's no harm 
done. You may discern the haste I'm in by my 
writing. There will come a time for a long letter 



The Last of Chicksands. 269 

again, but there will never come any wherein I 
shall not be 

Yours. 

[Sealed with black wax, and directed] 
For Mr. William Temple, 

at Sir John Temple's home 

in Damask Street, 

Dublin. 

Thus Dorothy leaves Chicksands, her last words from 
her old home to Temple breathing her love and affection 
for him. It is no great sorrow at the moment to leave 
Chicksands, for its latest memories are scenes of sick- 
ness, grief, and death. And now the only home on 
earth for Dorothy lies in the future ; it is not a par- 
ticular spot on earth, but to be by his side, wherever 
that may be. 



CHAPTER VI. 

VISITING. SUMMER 1 654. 

THIS chapter opens with a portion of a letter written by 
Sir William Temple to his mistress, dated Ireland, May 
1 8, 1654. It is the only letter, or rather scrap of letter, 
which we have of his, and by some good chance it has 
survived with the rest of Dorothy's letters. It will, I 
think, throw great light on his character as a lover, 
showing him to have been ardent and ecstatic in his 
suit, making quite clear Dorothy's wisdom in insisting, 
as she often does, on the necessity of some more material 
marriage portion than mere love and hope. His refer- 
ence to the " unhappy differences " strengthens my view 
that the letters of the former chapter belong all to one 
date. 



Letter 57. — Letter of Sir William Temple. 

May i$t/i, 1654. 

... I am called upon for my letter, but must 
have leave first to remember you of yours. For 
God's sake write constantly while I am here, or I 
am undone past all recovery. I have lived upon 
them ever since I came, but had thrived much 

270 



Visiting. 271 

better had they been longer. Unless you use to 
give me better measure, I shall not be in case to 
undertake a journey to England. The despair I 
was in at not hearing from you last week, and the 
belief that all my letters had miscarried (by some 
treachery among my good friends who, I am 
sorry, have the name of yours), made me press 
my father by all means imaginable to give me 
leave to go presently if I heard not from you 
this post. But he would never yield to that, 
because, he said, upon your silence he should 
suspect all was not likely to be well between us, 
and then he was sure I should not be in condition 
to be alone. He remembered too well the letters 
I writ upon our last unhappy differences, and 
would not trust me from him in such another 
occasion. But, withal, he told me he would never 
give me occasion of any discontent which he could 
remedy ; that if you desired my coming over, and 
I could not be content without, he would not 
hinder me, though he very much desired my 
company a month or two longer, and that in 
that time 'twas very likely I might have his as 
well. 

Now, in very good earnest, do you think 'tis 
time for me to come or no ? Would you be very 
glad to see me there, and could you do it in less 
disorder, and with less surprise, than you did at 
Chicksands ? 

I ask you these questions very seriously ; but 



272 Lrtters from Dorothy Osborne. 

yet how willingly would I venture all to be with 
you. I know you love me still ; you promised 
me, and that's all the security I can have in this 
world. 'Tis that which makes all things else 
seem nothing to it, so high it sets me ; and so 
high, indeed, that should I ever fall 'twould dash 
me all to pieces. Methinks your very charity 
should make you love me more now than ever, 
by seeing me so much more unhappy than I used, 
by being so much farther from you, for that is all 
the measure can be taken of my good or ill con- 
dition. Justice, I am sure, will oblige you to it, 
since you have no other means left in the world 
of rewarding such a passion as mine, which, sure, 
is of a much richer value than anything in the 
world besides. Should you save my life again, 
should you make me absolute master of your 
fortune and your person too, I should accept 
none of all this in any part of payment, but look 
upon you as one behindhand with me still. 'Tis 
no vanity this, but a true sense of how pure and 
how refined a nature my passion is, which none 
can ever know except my own heart, unless you 
find it out by being there. 

How hard it is to think of ending when I am 
writing to you ; but it must be so, and I must 
ever be subject to other people's occasions, and 
so never, I think, master of my own. This is too 
true, both in respect of this fellow's post that is 
bawling at me for my letter, and of my father's 



Visiting. 273 

delays. They kill me ; but patience, — would any- 
body but I were here! Yet you may command 
me ever at one minute's warning. Had I not 
heard from you by this last, in earnest I had 
resolved to have gone with this, and given my 
father the slip for all his caution. He tells me 
still of a little time ; but, alas ! who knows not 
what mischances and how great changes have 
often happened in a little time ? 

For God's sake let me hear of all your motions, 
when and where I may hope to see you. Let us 
but hope this cloud, this absence that has overcast 
all my contentment, may pass away, and I am 
confident there's a clear sky attends us. My 
dearest dear, adieu. 

Yours. 

Pray, where is your lodging ? Have a care of 
all the despatch and security that can be in our 
intelligence. Remember my fellow-servant ; sure, 
by the next I shall write some learned epistle to 
her, I have been so long about it. 



o 



Letter 58. — Dorothy is now in London, staying pro- 
bably with that aunt whom she mentioned before as 
one who was always ready to find her a husband other 
than Temple. Of the plot against the Protector in 
which my Lord of Dorchester is said to be engaged, an 
account is given in connection with Letter ^\ that is, 
presuming it to be the same plot, and that Lord 

Dorchester is one of the many persons arrested under 

S 



274 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

suspicion of being concerned in it. I cannot find any- 
thing which identifies him with a special plot. 

Lady Sandis [Sandys], who seems so fond of race 
meetings and other less harmless amusements, was the 
wife of William Lord Sandys, and daughter of the Earl 
of Salisbury. Lord Sandys' country house was Motes- 
font or Mottisfont Priory, in Hampshire, " which the 
King had given him in exchange for Chelsea, in West- 
minster." So says Leland, the antiquary and scholar, in 
his Itinerary ; but it is a little puzzling to the modern 
mind with preconceived notions of Chelsea, to hear it 
spoken of as a seat or estate in Westminster. Colonel 
Tom Paunton is to me merely a name ; and J. Morton 
is nothing more, unless we may believe him to be Sir 
John Morton, Bart, of Milbourne, St. Andrew, in Not- 
tinghamshire. This addition of a local habitation and a 
name gives us no further knowledge, however, of the 
scandal to which Dorothy alludes. 

Mistress Stanley and Mistress Witherington have left 
no trace of their identity that I can find, but Mistress 
Philadelphia Carey is not wholly unknown. She was 
the second daughter of Thomas Carey, one of the Earl 
of Monmouth's sons, and readers may be pleased to 
know that she did marry Sir Henry Littleton. 

Of the scandal concerning Lord Rich I am not sorry 
to know nothing. 

May 2$tk [1654]. 

This world is composed of nothing but con- 
trarieties and sudden accidents, only the propor- 
tions are not at all equal ; for to a great measure 
of trouble it allows so small a quantity of joy, that 
one may see 'tis merely intended to keep us alive 



Visiting. 275 

withal. This is a formal preface, and looks as if 
there were something of very useful to follow ; but 
I would not wish you to expect it. I was only 
considering my own ill-humour last night, I had 
not heard from you in a week or more, my brother 
had been with me and we had talked ourselves 
both out of breath and patience too, I was not very 
well, and rose this morning only because I was 
weary of lying in bed. When I had dined I took 
a coach and went to see whether there was ever 
a letter for me, and was this once so lucky as to 
find one. I am not partial to myself I know, and 
am contented that the pleasure I have received 
with this, shall serve to sweeten many sad thoughts 
that have interposed since your last, and more 
that I may reasonably expect before I have 
another ; and I think I may (without vanity) say, 
that nobody is more sensible of the least good 
fortune nor murmurs less at an ill than I do, 
since I owe it merely to custom and not to any 
constancy in my humour, or something that is 
better. No, in earnest, anything of good comes 
to me like the sun to the inhabitants of Green- 
land, it raises them to life when they see it, and 
when they miss it, it is not strange they expect 
a night of half a year long. 

You cannot imagine how kindly I take it that 
you forgive my brother, and let me assure you 
I shall never press you to anything unreasonable. 
I will not oblige you to court a person that has 



276 Letters from Dorothy Osbowie. 

injured you. I only beg that whatsoever he does 
in that kind may be excused by his relation to 
me, and that whenever you are moved to think 
he does you wrong, you will at the same time 
remember that his sister loves you passionately 
and nobly ; that if he values nothing but fortune, 
she despises it, and could love you as much a 
beggar as she could do a prince ; and shall with- 
out question love you eternally, but whether with 
any satisfaction to herself or you is a sad doubt 
I am not apt to hope, and whether it be the better 
or the worse I know not. All sorts of differences 
are natural to me, and that which (if your kind- 
ness would give you leave) you would term a 
weakness in me is nothing but a reasonable 
distrust of my own judgment, which makes me 
desire the approbation of my friends. I never 
had the confidence in my life to presume anything 
well done that I had nobody's opinion in but my 
own ; and as you very well observe, there are so 
manv that think themselves wise when nothing 
equals their folly but their pride, that I dread 
nothing so much as discovering such a thought in 
myself because of the consequences of it. 

Whenever you come you must not doubt your 
welcome, but I can promise you nothing for the 
manner on't. I am afraid my surprise and dis- 
order will be more than ever. I have good 
reason to think so, and none that you can take ill. 
But I would not have you attempt it till your 



Visiting. 277 

father is ready for the journey too. No, really he 

deserves that all your occasions should wait for his ; 
and if you have not much more than an ordinary 

obedience for him, I shall never believe you have 

more than an ordinary kindness for me ; since (if 

you will pardon me the comparison) I believe we 

both merit it from you upon the same score, he as a 

very indulgent father, and I as a very kind mistress. 

Don't laugh at me for commending myself, you 

will never do it for me, and so I am forced to it. 

I am still here in town, but had no hand, I can 

assure you, in the new discovered plot against the 

Protector. But my Lord of Dorchester, they say, 

has, and so might I have had if I were as rich as 

he, and then you might have been sure of me at 

the Tower; — now a worse lodging must serve my 

turn. 'Tis over against Salisbury House where I 

have the honour of seeing my Lady M. Sandis 

every day unless some race or other carry her out 

of town. The last week she went to one as far 

as Winchester with Col. Paunton (if you know 

such a one), and there her husband met her, and 

because he did so (though it 'twere by accident) 

thought himself obliged to invite her to his house 

but seven miles off, and very modestly said no 

more for it, but that he thought it better than an 

Inn, or at least a crowded one as all in the town 

were now because of the race. But she was so 

good a companion that she would not forsake her 

company. So he invited them too, but could 



278 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

prevail with neither. Only my Lady grew kind 
at parting and said, indeed if Tom Paunton and 
J. Morton and the rest would have gone she 
could have been contented to have taken his 
offer. Thus much for the married people, now 
for those that are towards it. 

There is Mr. Stanley and Mrs. Witherington ; 
Sir H. Littleton and Mrs. Philadelphia Carey, 
who in earnest is a fine woman, such a one as 
will make an excellent wife ; and some say my 
Lord Rich and my Lady Betty Howard, but 
others that pretend to know more say his court 
to her is but to countenance a more serious one to 
Mrs. Howard, her sister-in-law, he not having 
courage to pretend so openly (as some do) to 
another's wife. Oh, but your old acquaintance, 
poor Mr. Heningham, has no luck ! He was so 
near (as he thought at least) marrying Mrs. Ger- 
herd that anybody might have got his whole estate 
in wagers upon't that would have ventured but a 
reasonable proportion of their own. And now he 
looks more like an ass than ever he did. She 
has cast him off most unhandsomely, that's the 
truth on't, and would have tied him to such con- 
ditions as he might have been her slave withal, 
but could never be her husband. Is not this a 
great deal of news for me that never stir abroad ? 
Nay, I had brought me to-day more than all this : 
that I am marrying myself ! And the pleasantness 
on't is that it should be to my Lord St. John. 



Visiting. 279 

Would he look on me, think you, that had pretty 
Mrs. Fretcheville ? My comfort is, I have not 
seen him since he was a widower, and never 
spoke to him in my life. I found myself so inno- 
cent that I never blushed when they told it me. 
What would I give I could avoid it when people 
speak of you ? In earnest, I do prepare myself 
all that is possible to hear it spoken of, yet for 
my life I cannot hear your name without dis- 
covering that I am more than ordinarily concerned 
in't. A blush is the foolishest thing that can be, 
and betrays one more than a red nose does a 
drunkard ; and yet I would not so wholly have 
lost them as some women that I know has, as 
much injury as they do me. 

I can assure you now that I shall be here a 
fortnight longer (they tell me no lodger, upon 
pain of his Highness's displeasure, must remove 
sooner) ; but when I have his leave I go into 
Suffolk for a month, and then come hither again 
to go into Kent, where I intend to bury myself 
alive again as I did in Bedfordshire, unless you 
call me out and tell me I may be happy. Alas ! 
how fain I would hope it, but I cannot, and should 
it ever happen, 'twould be long before I should 
believe 'twas meant for me in earnest, or that 
'twas other than a dream. To say truth, I do 
not love to think on't, I find so many things to 
fear and so few to hope. 

'Tis better telling you that I will send my 



280 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

letters where you direct, that they shall be as 
long ones as possibly my time will permit, and 
when at any time you miss of one, I give you 
leave to imagine as many kind things as you 
please, and to believe I mean them all to you. 
Farewell. 

Letter 59. — It is a little astonishing to read, as one 
does in this and the last letter, of race meetings, and 
Dorothy, habited in a mask, disporting herself at New 
Spring Gardens or in the Park. It opens one's eyes to the 
exaggerated gloom that has been thrown over England 
during the Puritan reign by those historians who have 
derived their information solely from State papers and 
proclamations. It is one thing to proclaim amusements, 
another to abolish them. The first was undoubtedly 
done, but we doubt if there was ever any long-continued 
effort to do the last ; and in the latter part of Cromwell's 
reign the gloom, and the strait-laced regulations that 
caused it, must have almost entirely disappeared. 

Spring Gardens seems at one time to have had no 
very good reputation. Lady Alice Halkett, writing in 
1644, tells us that "so scrupulous was I of giving any 
occasion to speak of me as I know they did of others, 
that though I loved well to see plays, and to walk in 
the Spring Gardens sometimes (before it grew some- 
thing scandalous by the abuses of some), yet I cannot 
remember three times that ever I went with any man 
besides my brother." However, fashions change in ten 
years, and Spring Gardens is, doubtless, now quite 
demure and respectable, or we should not find Dorothy- 
there. Spring Gardens was enclosed and laid out 
towards the end of the reign of James I. The clump 



Visiting. 



281 



of houses which still bears its name is supposed to 
indicate its position with tolerable exactness. Evelyn 
tells us that Cromwell shut up the Spring Gardens in 
1600, and Knight thinks they were closed until the 
Restoration, in which small matter we may allow 
Dorothy to correct him. The fact of the old gardens 
having been closed may account for Dorothy referring 
to the place as "New Spring Gardens." Knight also 
quotes at second hand from an account of Spring 
Gardens, complaining that the author is unknown to 
him. This quotation is, however, from one of Somers' 
Tracts entitled "A Character of England as it was 
lately represented in a Letter to a Nobleman of France, 
1659." The Frenchman by whom the letter is written 
— probably an English satirist in disguise — gives us 
such a graphic account of the Parks before the Restora- 
tion, that as the matter is fresh and bears upon the 
subject, I have no hesitation in quoting it at length : — 

" I did frequently in the spring accompany my 
Lord N. into a field near the town which they call 
Hyde Park, — the place not unpleasant, and which they 
use as our ' Course,' but with nothing that order, 
equipage, and splendour; being such an assembly of 
wretched jades and hackney coaches, as, next to a 
regiment of car-men, there is nothing approaches the 
resemblance. The Park was, it seems, used by the late 
King and nobility for the freshness of the air and the 
goodly prospect, but it is that which now (besides all 
other exercises) they pay for here in England, though 
it be free in all the world beside ; every coach and horse 
which enters buying his mouthful and permission of 
the publican who has purchased it, for which the 
entrance is guarded with porters and long staves. 

" The manner is, as the company returns, to stop at the 



282 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

Spring Gardens so called, in order to the Park as our 
Thuilkries is to the Course ; the inclosure not disagree- 
able for the solemnness of the groves, the warbling of 
the birds, and as it opens into the spacious walks of 
St. James. But the company walk in it at such a rate 
as you would think all the ladies were so many Atalantas 
contending with their wooers, and, my Lord, there was 
no appearance that I should prove the Hippomenes, 
who could with very much ado keep pace with them. 
But, as fast as they run, they stay there so long, as if 
they wanted not to finish the race, for it is usual here 
to find some of the young company till midnight, and 
the thickets of the garden seem to be contrived to all 
the advantages of gallantry after they have refreshed 
with the collation, which is here seldom omitted, at a 
certain cabaret in the middle of this paradise, where the 
forbidden fruits are certain trifling tarts, neats' tongues, 
salacious meats, and bad Rhenish, for which the gallants 
pay sauce, as indeed they do at all such houses through- 
out England ; for they think it a piece of frugality 
beneath them to bargain or account for what they eat 
in any place, however unreasonably imposed upon." 

Dorothy is quite right in her correction concerning 
Will Spencer. He was the first Earl of Sunderland, 
and married Elizabeth, daughter of Lord Gerard. 

June the 6th, 1654. 

I see you know how to punish me. In earnest, 
I was so frightened with your short letter as you 
cannot imagine, and as much troubled at the 
cause on't. What is it your father ails, and how 
long has he been ill ? If my prayers are heard, 
he will not be so long. Why do you say I failed 



Visiting. 



- u o 



you? Indeed, I did not. Jane is my witness. She 
carried my letter to the White Hart, by St. James's, 
and 'twas a very long one too. I carried one thither 
since, myself, and the woman of the house was so 
very angry, because I desired her to have a care 
on't, that I made the coachman drive away with all 
possible speed, lest she should have beaten me. To 
say truth, I pressed her too much, considering how 
little the letter deserved it. 'Twas writ in such dis- 
order, the company prating about me, and some of 
them so bent on doinof me little mischiefs, that I 
know not what I did, and believe it was the most 
senseless, disjointed thing that ever was read. 

I remember now that I writ Robin Spencer 
instead of Will. Tis he that has married Mrs. 
Gerherd, and I admire their courage. She will 
have eight hundred pounds a year, 'tis true, after 
her mother's death ; but how they will live till 
then I cannot imagine. I shall be even with you 
for your short letter. I'll swear they will not 
allow me time for anything, and to show how 
absolutely I am governed I need but tell you that 
I am every night in the Park and at New Spring 
Gardens, where, though I come with a mask, I 
cannot escape being known, nor my conversion 
being admired. Are you not in some fear what 
will become on me? These are dangerous courses. 
I do not find, though, that they have altered me 
yet. I am much the same person at heart I was 
in being Yours. 



284 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

Letter 60. 

June 13th [1654]. 

You have satisfied me very much with this last 
long letter, and made some amends for the short 
one I received before. I am convinced, too, 
happiness is much such a kind of thing as you 
describe, or rather such a nothing. For there is 
no one thing can properly be called so, but every 
one is left to create it to themselves in something 
which they either have or would have ; and so far 
it's well enough. But I do not like that one's 
happiness should depend upon a persuasion that 
this is happiness, because nobody knows how 
long they shall continue in a belief built upon no 
grounds, only to bring it to what you say, and to 
make it absolutely of the same nature with faith. 
We must conclude that nobody can either create 
or continue such a belief in themselves ; but 
where it is there is happiness. And for my part 
at this present, I verily believe I could find it in 
the lonor walk at Dublin. 

You say nothing of your father's sickness, 
therefore I hope he is well again ; for though I 
have a quarrel to him, it does not extend so far 
as to wish him ill. But he made no good return 
for the counsel I gave you, to say that there 
might come a time when my kindness might fail. 
Do not believe him, I charge you, unless you 
doubt yourself that you may give me occasion 



Visit ing. 2 °5 

to change; and when he tells you so again, 
engage what you please upon't, and put it upon 
my account. I shall go out of town this week, 
and so cannot possibly get a picture drawn for 
you till I come up again, which will be within 
these six weeks, but not to make any stay at a 1. 
I should be glad to find you here then. I would 
have had one drawn since I came, and consulted 
my glass every morning when to begin ; and to 
speak freely to you that are my friend, I could 
never find my face in a condition to admit on t, 
and when I was not satisfied with it myself, I had 
no reason to hope that anybody else should. But 
I am afraid, as you say, that time will not mend 
it, and therefore you shall have it as it is as soon 
as Mr. Cooper will vouchsafe to take the pains 

to draw it for you. 

I am in great trouble to think how I shall write 
out of Suffolk to you, or receive yours. However, 
do not fail to write, though they lie awhile. I 
shall have them at last, and they will not be the 
less welcome ; and, though you should miss of 
some of mine, let it not trouble you ; but if it be 
by my fault, I'll give you leave to demand satis- 
faction for it when you come. Jane kisses your 
hands, and says she will be ready in all places 
to do you service ; but I'll prevent her, now you 
have put me into a jealous humour. I'll keep 
her in chains before she shall quit scores with me. 
Do not believe, sir, I beseech you, that the young 



286 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

heirs are for you ; content yourself with your old 
mistress. You are not so handsome as Will 
Spencer, nor I have not so much courage nor 
wealth as his mistress, nor she has not so much 
as her aunt says by all the money. I should not 
have called her his mistress now they have been 
married almost this fortnight. 

I'll write again before I leave the town, and 
should have writ more now, but company is come 
in. Adieu, my dearest. 

Letter 61. — Lady Talmash was the eldest daughter of 
Mr. Murray, Charles I.'s page and whipping boy. She 
married Sir Lionel Talmash of Suffolk, a gentleman 
of noble family. After her father's death, she took 
the title of Countess of Dysart, although there was 
some dispute about the right of her father to any title. 
Bishop Burnet says : " She was a woman of great beauty, 
but of far greater parts. She had a wonderful quickness 
of apprehension, and an amazing vivacity in conversa- 
tion. She had studied not only divinity and history, 
but mathematics and philosophy. She was violent in 
everything she set about, — a violent friend, but a much 
more violent enemy. She had a restless ambition, 
lived at a vast expense, and was ravenously covetous ; 
and would have stuck at nothing by which she might 
compass her ends. She had been early in a correspond- 
ence with Lord Lauderdale, that had given occasion to 
censure. When he was a prisoner after Worcester 
fight, she made him believe he was in great danger of 
his life, and that she saved it by her intrigues with 
Cromwell, which was not a little taken notice of. 
Cromwell was certainly fond of her, and she took 



Visiting. 287 

care to entertain him in it ; till he, finding what was 
said upon it, broke it off. Upon the King's Restoration 
she thought that Lord Lauderdale made not those 
returns she expected. They lived for some years at a 
distance. But upon her husband's death she made up 
all quarrels ; so that Lord Lauderdale and she lived so 
much together that his Lady was offended at it and 
went to Paris, where she died about three years after." 
This was in 1672, and soon afterwards Lady Dysart and 
Lord Lauderdale were married. She had great power 
over him, and employed it in trafficking with such State 
patronage as was in Lord Lauderdale's power to bestow. 

Cousin Hammond, who was going to take Ludlow's 
place in Ireland, would be the Colonel Robert Hammond 
who commanded Carisbrooke when the King was im- 
prisoned there. He was one of a new council formed in 
August and sent into Ireland about the end of that month. 

Lady Vavasour was Ursula, daughter of Walter 
Gifford of Chillington, Staffordshire. Her husband was 
Sir Thomas Vavasour, Bart. The Vavasours were a 
Roman Catholic family, and claimed descent from those 
who held the ancient office of King's Valvasour ; and we 
need not therefore be surprised to find Lady Vavasour 
engaged in one of the numerous plots that surrounded 
and endangered the Protector's power. The plot itself 
seems to have created intense excitement in the capital, 
and resulted in three persons being tried for high 
treason, and two executed, — John Gerard, gentleman, 
Peter Vowel, schoolmaster of Islington, and one Sum- 
merset Fox, who pleaded guilty, and whose life was 
spared. " Some wise men," writes one Thomas Gower 
in a contemporary letter (still unprinted) " believe that a 
couple of coy-ducks drew in the rest, then revealed all, 
and were employed to that purpose that the execution 



2 38 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

of a (e\v mean persons might deter wiser and more con- 
siderable persons." This seems not improbable. On June 
6th the official Mercurius Politicus speaks of this plot as 
follows : — " The traitorous conspiracy mentioned hereto- 
fore it appears every day more desperate and bloody. It 
is discovered that their design was to have destroyed his 
Highness's person, and all others at the helm of Govern- 
ment that they could have laid hands on. Immediately 
upon the villainous assassination, they intended to have 
proclaimed Charles Stuart by the assistance of a tumult," 
etc. etc. This with constant accounts of further arrests 
troubles the public mind at this time. 

The passage of Cowley which Dorothy refers to is 
in the second book of Cowley's Davideis. It opens 
with a description of the friendship between David and 
Jonathan, and, upon that occasion, a digression con- 
cerning the nature of love. The poem was written by 
Cowley when a young man at Cambridge. One can 
picture Dorothy reading and musing over lines like 
these with sympathy and admiration : 

What art thou, love, thou great mysterious thing ? 
From what hid stock does thy strange nature spring ? 
' Tis thou that mov'st the world through ev'ry part, 
And hold'st the vast frame close that nothing start 
From the due place and office first ordained, 
By thee were all things made and are sustained. 
Sometimes we see thee fully and can say 
From hence thou took'st thy rise and went'st that way, 
But oft'ner the short beams of reason's eye 
See only there thou art, not how, nor why. 

His lines on love, though overcharged with quaint 
conceits, are often noble and true, and end at least 
with one fine couplet : 

Thus dost thou sit (like men e'er sin had framed 
A guilty blush), naked but not ashamed. 



Visiting. 289 

I promised in my last to write again before 
I went out of town, and now I'll be as good 
as my word. They are all gone this morn- 
ing, and have left me much more at liberty 
than I have been of late, therefore I believe this 
will be a long letter ; perhaps too long, at least 
if my letters are as little entertaining as my 
company is. I was carried yesterday abroad to 
a dinner that was designed for mirth, but it 
seems one ill-humoured person in the company 
is enough to put all the rest out of tune ; for I 
never saw people perform what they intended 
worse, and could not forbear telling them so : 
but to excuse themselves and silence my re- 
proaches, they all agreed to say that I spoiled 
their jollity by wearing the most unreasonable 
looks that could be put on for such an occasion. 
I told them I knew no remedy but leaving me 
behind next time, and could have told them that 
my looks were suitable to my fortune, though not 
to a feast. Fye ! I am got into my complaining 
humour that tires myself as well as everybody 
else, and which (as you observe) helps not at all. 
Would it would leave me, and then I could 
believe I shall not always have occasion for it. 
But that's in nobody's power, and my Lady 
Talmash, that says she can do whatsoever she 
will, cannot believe whatsoever she pleases. 'Tis 
not unpleasant, methinks, to hear her talk, how at 
such a time she was sick and the physicians told 

T 



290 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

her she would have the small-pox, and showed 
her where they were coming out upon her ; but 
she bethought herself that it was not at all con- 
venient for her to have them at that time ; some 
business she had that required her going abroad, 
and so she resolved she would not be sick ; nor 
was not. Twenty such stones as these she tells ; 
and then falls into discoveries of strength of 
reason and the power of philosophy, till she 
confounds herself and all that hear her. You 
have no such ladies in Ireland ? 

Oh me, but I heard to - day your cousin 
Hammond is going thither to be in Ludlow's 
place. Is it true? You tell me nothing what is 
done there, but 'tis no matter. The less one 
knows of State affairs I find it is the better. My 
poor Lady Vavasour is carried to the Tower, 
and her great belly could not excuse her, because 
she was acquainted by somebody that there was a 
plot against the Protector, and did not discover 
it. She has told now all that was told her, but 
vows she will never say from whence she had 
it : we shall see whether her resolutions are as 
unalterable as those of my Lady Talmash. I 
wonder how she behaved herself when she was 
married. I never saw any one yet that did not 
look simply and out of countenance, nor ever 
knew a wedding well designed but one ; and that 
was of two persons who had time enough I con- 
fess to contrive it, and nobody to please in't but 



Visiting. 291 

themselves. He came down into the country 
where she was upon a visit, and one morning 
married her. As soon as they came out of the 
church they took coach and came for the town, 
dined at an inn by the way, and at night came 
into lodgings that were provided for them where 
nobody knew them, and where they passed for 
married people of seven years' standing. 

The truth is I could not endure to be Mrs. 
Bride in a public wedding, to be made the happiest 
person on earth. Do not take it ill, for I would 
endure it if I could, rather than fail ; but in earnest 
I do not think it were possible for me. Yo". 
cannot apprehend the formalities of a treaty more 
than I do, nor so much the success on't. Yet in 
earnest, your father will not find my brother 
Peyton wanting in civility (though he is not a 
man of much compliment, unless it be in his 
letters to me), nor an unreasonable person in 
anything, so he will allow him out of his kindness 
to his wife to set a higher value upon her sister 
than she deserves. I know not how he may be 
prejudiced as to the business, but he is not deaf 
to reason when 'tis civilly delivered, and is as 
easily gained with compliance and good usage as 
anybody I know, but by no other way. When he 
is roughly dealt with, he is like me, ten times the 
worse fort. 

I make it a case of conscience to discover my 
faults to you as fast as I know them, that you 



292 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

may consider what you have to do. My aunt 
told me no longer agone than yesterday that I was 
the most wilful woman that ever she knew, and 
had an obstinacy of spirit nothing could overcome. 
Take heed ! you see I give you fair warning. 

I have missed a letter this Monday : What is 
the reason ? By the next, I shall be gone into 
Kent, and my other journey is laid aside, which 
I am not displeased at, because it would have 
broken our intercourse very much. 

Here are some verses of Cowley's. Tell me how 
you like them. 'Tis only a piece taken out of a 
new thing of his ;• the whole is very long, and is 
a description of, or rather a paraphrase upon, the 
friendship of David and Jonathan. 'Tis, I think, 
the best I have seen of his, and I like the subject 
because 'tis that I would be perfect in. Adieu. 

Je suis vostre. 

Letter 62. 

June the 26th [1654]. 

I told you in my last that my Suffolk journey 
was laid aside, and that into Kent hastened. I 
am beginning it to-day ; and have chosen to go 
as far as Gravesend by water, though it be very 
gloomy weather. If I drown by the way, this 
will be my last letter ; and, like a will, I bequeath 
all my kindness to you in it, with a charge never 
to bestow it all upon another mistress, lest my 



Visiting. 293 

ghost rise again and haunt you. I am in such 
haste that I can say little else to you now. When 
you are come over, weT think where to meet, for 
at this distance I can design nothing ; only I 
should be as little pleased with the constraint of 
my brother's house as you. Pray let me know 
whether your man leaves you, and how you stand 
inclined to him I offer you. Indeed, I like him 
extremely, and he is commended to me, by people 
that know him very well and are able to judge, 
for a most excellent servant, and faithful as 
possible. I'll keep him unengaged till I hear 
from you. Adieu. 

My next shall make amends for this short one. 

[PS.] — I received your last of June 22nd since 
I sealed up my letter, and I durst not but make 
an excuse for another short one, after you have 
chid me so for those you have received already ; 
indeed, I could not help it, nor cannot now, but if 
that will satisfy I can assure you I shall make a 
much better wife than I do a husband, if I ever 
am one. Pardon, mon Cher Coeur, on matte?id. 
Adieu, mon A}ne. Je vous souhait tout ce que 
vous desire. 

Letter 63. 

Jidy the 4th [1654]. 

Because you find fault with my other letters, 
this is like to be shorter than they; I did not 



294 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

intend it so though, I can assure you. But last 
night my brother told me he did not send his till 
ten o'clock this morning, and now he calls for 
mine at seven, before I am up ; and I can only 
be allowed time to tell you that I am in Kent, 
and in a house so strangely crowded with 
company that I am weary as a dog already, 
though I have been here but three or four days ; 
that all their mirth has not mended my humour, 
and that I am here the same I was in other 
places ; that I hope, merely because you bid me, 
and lose that hope as often as I consider anything 
but yours. Would I were easy of belief! they say 
one is so to all that one desires. I do not find it, 
though I am told I was so extremely when I 
believed you loved me. That I would not find, 
and you have only power to make me think it. 
But I am called upon. How fain I would say 
more ; yet 'tis all but the saying with more 
circumstance that I am 

Yours. 

[Directed.] For your master. 



Letter 64. 

I see you can chide when you please, and with 
authority ; but I deserve it, I confess, and all I 
can say for myself is, that my fault proceeded 
from a very good principle in me. I am apt 



Visiting. 295 

to speak what I think ; and to you have so 
accustomed myself to discover all my heart that 
I do not believe it will ever be in my power to 
conceal a thought from you. Therefore I am 
afraid you must resolve to be vexed with all my 
senseless apprehensions as my brother Peyton is 
with some of his wife's, who is thought a very 
oood woman, but the most troublesome one in 
a coach that ever was. We dare not let our 
tongues lie more on one side of our mouths 
than t'other for fear of overturning it. You are 
satisfied, I hope, ere this that I 'scaped drowning. 
However, 'tis not amiss that my will made you 
know now how to dispose of all my wealth when- 
soever I die. But I am troubled much you 
should make so ill a journey to so little purpose ; 
indeed, I writ by the first post after my arrival 
here, and cannot imagine how you came to miss 
of my letters. Is your father returned yet, and 
do you think of coming over immediately ? How 
welcome you will be. But, alas ! I cannot talk 
on't at the rate that you do. I am sensible that 
such an absence is misfortune enough, but I dare 
not promise myself that it will conclude ours ; 
and 'tis more my belief that you yourself speak 
it rather to encourage me, and to your wishes 
than your hopes. 

My humour is so ill at present, that I dare say 
no more lest you chide me again. I find myself 
fit for nothing but to converse with a lady below, 



-96 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

that is fallen out with all the world because 
her husband and she cannot agree. 'Tis the 
pleasantest thing that can be to hear us discourse. 
She takes great pains to dissuade me from ever 
marrying, and says I am the veriest fool that ever 
lived if I do not take her counsel. Now we do 
not absolutely agree in that point, but I promise 
her never to marry unless I can find such a husband 
as I describe to her, and she believes is never to 
be found ; so that, upon the matter, we differ very 
little. Whensoever she is accused of maintaining 
opinions very destructive of society, and abso- 
lutely prejudicial to all the young people of both 
sexes that live in the house, she calls out me to 
be her second, and by it has lost me the favour 
of all our young gallants, who have got a custom 
of expressing anything that is nowhere but in 

fiction by the name of " Mrs. O 's husband." 

For my life I cannot beat into their heads a 
passion that must be subject to no decay, an even 
perfect kindness that must last perpetually, with- 
out the least intermission. They laugh to hear 
me say that one unkind word would destroy all 
the satisfaction of my life, and that I should 
expect our kindness should increase every day, if 
it were possible, but never lessen. All this is 
perfect nonsense in their opinion ; but I should 
not doubt the convincing them if I could hope to 
be so happy as to be 

Yours. 



Visit iiig. 297 

Letter 65. — Of William Lilly, a noted and extra- 
ordinary character of that day, the following account is 
taken from his own Life and Times, a lively book, 
full of amusing lies and astrological gossip, in which 
the author describes himself as a student of the Black 
Art. He was born in 1602 at Diseworth, an obscure 
town in the north of Leicestershire. His family 
appear to have been yeomen in this town for many 
generations. Passing over the measles of his infancy, 
and other trivial details of childhood, which he describes 
minutely, we find him as a boy at Ashby-de-la-Zouche, 
where he is the pupil of one Mr. John Brinsley. Here 
he learned Latin and Greek, and began to study 
Hebrew. In the sixteenth year of his age he was 
greatly troubled with dreams concerning his damnation 
or salvation ; and at the age of eighteen he returned to 
his father's house, and there kept a school in great 
penury. He then appears to have come up to London, 
leaving his father in a debtor's prison, and proceeded 
in pursuit of fortune with a new suit of clothes and 
seven shillings and sixpence in his pocket. In London 
he entered the service of one Gilbert Wright, an 
independent citizen of small means and smaller edu- 
cation. To him Lilly was both man - servant and 
secretary. The second Mrs. Wright seems to have had 
a taste for astrology, and consulted some of the quacks 
who then preyed on the silly women of the city. She 
was very fond of young Lilly, who attended her in her 
last illness, and, in return for his care and attention, she 
bequeathed to him several " sigils " or talismanic seals. 
Probably it was the foolishness of this poor woman that 
first suggested to Lilly the advantages to be gained 
from the profession of astrology. Mr. Wright married a 
third wife, and soon afterwards died, leaving his widow 



298 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

comfortably off. She fell in love with Lilly, who 
married her in 1627, and for five years, until her death, 
they lived happily together. Lilly was now a man of 
means, and was enabled to study that science which he 
afterwards practised with so much success. There were 
a good many professors of the black art at this date, 
and Lilly studied under one Evans, a scoundrelly ex- 
parson from Wales, until, according to Lilly's own 
account, he discovered Evans to be the cheat he 
undoubtedly was. Lilly, when he set up for himself, 
wrote many astrological works, which seem to have 
been very successful. He was known and visited by all 
the great men of the day, and probably had brains 
enough only to prophesy when he knew. His descrip- 
tion of his political creed is beautifully characteristic of 
the man : " I was more Cavalier than Roundhead, and 
so taken notice of; but afterwards I engaged body and 
soul in the cause of the Parliament, but still with much 
affection to his Majesty's person and unto Monarchy, 
which I ever loved and approved beyond any govern- 
ment whatsoever." Lilly was, in a word, a self-seeking 
but successful knave. People who had been robbed, 
women in love, men in debt, all in trouble and doubt, 
from the King downwards, sought his aid. He pretended 
to be a man of science, not a man gifted with super- 
natural powers. Whether he succeeded in believing in 
astrology and deceiving himself, it is impossible to say; 
he was probably too clever for that, but he deceived 
others admirably, and was one of the noted and most 
successful of the old astrologers. 

How long- this letter will be I cannot tell. 
You shall have all the time that is allowed me, 
but upon condition that you shall not examine 



Visiting. 299 

the sense on't too strictly, for you must know 
I want sleep extremely. The sun was up an 
hour before I went to bed to-day, and this is not 
the first time I have done this since I came 
hither. 'Twill not be for your advantage that 
I should stay here long ; for, in earnest, I shall 
be good for nothing if I do. We go abroad all 
day and play all night, and say our prayers when 
we have time. Well, in sober earnest now, I 
would not live thus a twelvemonth to gain all 
that the King has lost, unless it were to give it 
him again. 'Tis a miracle to me how my brother 
endures it. 'Tis as contrary to his humour as 
darkness is to light, and only shows the power 
he lets his wife have over him. Will you be so 
good-natured ? He has certainly as great a kind- 
ness for her as can be, and, to say truth, not 
without reason ; but of all the people that ever 
I saw, I do not like his carriage towards her. 
He is perpetually wrangling and finding fault, and 
to a person that did not know him would appear 
the worst husband and the most imperious in the 
world. He is so amongst his children too, though 
he loves them passionately. He has one son, 
and 'tis the finest boy that e'er you saw, and has 
a noble spirit, but yet stands in that awe of his 
father that one word from him is as much as 
twenty whippings. 

You must give me leave to entertain you thus 
with discourses of the family, for I can tell you 



300 Letters froi7i Dorothy Osborne. 

nothing else from hence. Yet, now I remember, 
I have another story for you. You little think 
I have been with Lilly, and, in earnest, I was, the 
day before I came out of town ; and what do you 
think I went for ? Not to know when you would 
come home, I can assure you, nor for any other 
occasion of my own ; but with a cousin of mine 
that had long designed to make herself sport with 
him, and did not miss of her aim. I confess I 
always thought him an impostor, but I could 
never have imagined him so simple a one as we 
found him. In my life I never heard so ridiculous 
a discourse as he made us, and no old woman 
who passes for a witch could have been more 
puzzled to seek what to say to reasonable people 
than he was. He asked us more questions than 
we did him, and caught at everything we said 
without discerning that we abused him and said 
things purposely to confound him ; which we did 
so perfectly that we made him contradict himself 
the strangest that ever you saw. Ever since 
this adventure, I have had so great a belief 
in all things of this nature, that I could not 
forbear laying a peas -cod with nine peas in't 
under my door yesterday, and was informed by 
it that my husband's name should be Thomas. 
How do you like that ? But what Thomas, 
I cannot imagine, for of all the servants I 
have got since I came hither I know none of 
that name. 



Visiting. 301 

Here is a new song, — I do not send it to you 
but to your sister; the tune is not worth the 
sending so far. If she pleases to put any to it, 
I am sure it will be a better than it has here. 
Adieu. 



Letter 66. — " The Lost Lady " is a tragi-comedy by 
Sir William Berkely, and is advertised to be sold at the 
shop of the Holy Lamb in the year 1639, which we may 
take as the probable date of its publication. Dorothy 
would play Hermione, the heroine. We can imagine 
her speaking with sympathetic accent lines such as 
these : 

With what harsh fate does Heaven afflict me, 
That all the blessings which make others happy, 
Must be my ruin ? 

The five Portugals to whom Dorothy refers as being 
hanged were the Portuguese ambassador's brother, Don 
Pantaleon Sa, and four of his men. The Mercurius 
Politicus of November 1653 gives the following account 
of the matters that led to the execution ; and as it is 
illustrative of the manners of the day, the account is 
here quoted at length : — 

"New Exchange in the Strand. November 21. — 
In the evening there happened a quarrel between the 
Portugal ambassador's brother and two or three others 
of that nation with one Mr. Gerard, an English gentle- 
man, whom they all fell upon ; but he being rescued 
out of their hands by one Mr. Anstruther, they retired 
home, and within an hour after returned with about 
twelve more of their nation, armed with breastplates and 
headpieces ; but after two or three hours taken there, 



302 Letters from Dorothy Osdorne. 

not finding Anstruther, they went home again for that 
night. 

"November 22. — At night the ambassador's brother 
and the rest returned again, and walking the upper 
Exchange, they met with one Col. Mayo, who, being 
a proper man, they supposed him to have been the 
same Anstruther that repelled them the night before ; 
and so shooting off a pistol (which was as the watch- 
word), the rest of the Portugals (supposed about fifty) 
came in with drawn swords, and leaving a sufficient 
number to keep the stairs, the rest went up with the 
ambassador's brother, and there they fell upon Col. 
Mayo, who, very gallantly defending himself, received 
seven dangerous wounds, and lies in a mortal condition. 
They fell also upon one Mr. Greenway, of Lincoln's Inn, 
as he was walking with his sister in one hand and his 
mistress in the other (to whom, as I am informed, he 
was to have been married on Tuesday next), and 
pistoled him in the head, whereof he died immediately. 
They brought with them several earthen jars stuffed 
with gunpowder, stopped with wax, and fitted with 
matches, intending, it seems, to have done some mis- 
chief to the Exchange that they might complete their 
revenge, but they were prevented." 

There is an account of their trial in the State Trials, 
of some interest to lawyers ; it resulted in the execution 
of Don Pantaleon Sa and four of his servants. By one 
of those curious fateful coincidences, with which fact 
often outbids fiction, Mr. Gerard, who was the first 
Englishman attacked by the Portuguese, suffers on the 
same scaffold as his would-be murderers, his offence 
being high treason. Vowel, the other plotter, is also 
executed, but the third saves himself, as we know, by 
confession. 



Visiting: 303 

July 20th [1654 in pencil]. 

I am very sorry I spoke too late, for I am 
confident this was an excellent servant. He was 
in the same house where I lay, and I had taken 
a great fancy to him, upon what was told me 
of him and what I saw. The poor fellow, too, 
was so pleased that I undertook to inquire out 
a place for him, that, though mine was, as I told 
him, uncertain, yet upon the bare hopes on't he 
refused two or three good conditions ; but I shall 
set him now at liberty, and not think at all the 
worse of him for his good-nature. Sure you go 
a little too far in your condemnation on't. I 
know it may be abused, as the best things are 
most subject to be, but in itself 'tis so absolutely 
necessary that where it is wanting nothing can 
recompense the miss on't. The most contemp- 
tible person in the world, if he has that, cannot 
be justly hated, and the most considerable without 
it cannot deserve to be loved. Would to God 
I had all that good-nature you complain you have 
too much of, I could find ways enough to dispose 
on't amongst myself and my friends ; but 'tis well 
where it is, and I should sooner wish you more 
on't than less. 

I wonder with what confidence you can com- 
plain of my short letters that are so guilty 
yourself in the same kind. I have not seen a 
letter this month which has been above half a 
sheet. Never trust me if I write more than you 



304 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

that live in a desolated country where you might 
finish a romance of ten tomes before anybody 
interrupted you — I that live in a house the most 
filled of any since the Ark, and where, I can assure 
[you], one has hardly time for the most necessary 
occasions. Well, there was never any one thing 
so much desired and apprehended at the same 
time as your return is by me ; it will certainly, 
I think, conclude me a very happy or a most 
unfortunate person. Sometimes, methinks, I 
would fain know my doom whatever it be ; and 
at others, I dread it so extremely, that I am 
confident the five Portugals and the three 
plotters which were t'other day condemned by 
the High Court of Justice had not half my fears 
upon them. I leave you to judge the constraint 
I live in, what alarms my thoughts give me, and 
yet how unconcerned this company requires I 
should be ; they will have me at my part in a 
play, " The Lost Lady " it is, and I am she. 
Pray God it be not an ill omen ! 

I shall lose my eyes and you this letter if I 
make it longer. Farewell. 

I am, yours. 

Letter 67. — Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, was the 
daughter of James I. She married the Elector Frederick, 
who was driven from his throne owing to his own 
misconduct and folly, when his wife was forced to return 
and live as a pensioner in her native country. She is said 
to have been gifted in a superlative degree with all that 



Visiting. 305 

is considered most lovely in a woman's character. On 
her husband's death in 1632 she went to live at the 
Hague, where she remained until the Restoration. 
There is a report that she married William, Earl of 
Craven, but there is no proof of this. He was, however, 
her friend and adviser through her years of widowhood, 
and it was to his house in Drury Lane that she returned 
to live in 1661. She is said to have been a lover of 
literature, and Francis Quarles and Sir Henry Wotton 
were her intimate friends. The latter has written some 
quaint and elegant verses to his mistress ; the last verse, 
in which he apostrophizes her as the sun, is peculiarly 
graceful. It runs thus : 

You meaner beauties of the night, 
That poorly satisfy our eyes, 

More by your number than your light, — 
You common people of the skies, 
What are you when the sun shall rise ? 

But the sun is set, and the beautiful Queen's sad, romantic 
story almost forgotten. 

Sir John Grenvile was a son of the valiant and loyal 
cavalier, Sir Bevil Grenvile, of Kelkhampton, Cornwall. 
He served the King successfully in the west of England, 
and was dangerously wounded at Newbury. He was 
entrusted by Charles II. to negotiate with General 
Monk. Monk's brother was vicar of Kelkhampton, so 
that Grenvile and Monk would in all probability be 
well acquainted before the time of the negotiation. We 
may remember, too, that Dorothy's younger brother 
was on intimate terms with General Monk's relations in 
Cornwall. 

There must be letters missing here, for we cannot 

believe more than a month passed without Dorothy 

writing a single letter. 

U 



306 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

I wonder you did not come before your last 
letter. 'Twas dated the 24th of August, but I 
received it not till the 1st of September. Would 
to God your journey were over ! Every little 
storm of wind frights me so, that I pass here for 
the greatest coward that ever was born, though, 
in earnest, I think I am as little so as most 
women, yet I may be deceived, too, for now I 
remember me you have often told me I was one, 
and, sure, you know what kind of heart mine is 
better than anybody else. 

I am glad you are pleased with that description 
I made you of my humour, for, though you had 
disliked it, I am afraid 'tis past my power to help. 
You need not make excuses neither for yours ; no 
other would please me half so well. That gaiety 
which you say is only esteemed would be in- 
supportable to me, and I can as little endure a 
tongue that's always in motion as I could the 
click of a mill. Of all the company this place is 
stored with, there is but two persons whose con- 
versation is at all easy ; one is my eldest niece, 
who, sure, was sent into the world to show 'tis 
possible for a woman to be silent ; the other, a 
gentleman whose mistress died just when they 
should have married ; and though 'tis many years 
since, one may read it in his face still. His 
humour was very good, I believe, before that 
accident, for he will yet say things pleasant 
enough, but 'tis so seldom that he speaks at all, 



Visiting. 307 

and when he does 'tis with so sober a look, that 
one may see he is not moved at all himself when 
he diverts the company most. You will not be 
jealous though I say I like him very much. If 
you were not secure in me, you might be so in 
him. He would expect his mistress should rise 
again to reproach his inconstancy if he made 
court to anything but her memory. Methinks 
we three (that is, my niece, and he and I) da 
become this house the worst that can be, unless 
I should take into the number my brother Peyton 
himself too ; for to say truth his, for another sort 
of melancholy, is not less than ours. What can 
you imagine we did this last week, when to our 
constant company there was added a colonel and 
his lady, a son of his and two daughters, a maid 
of honour to the Queen of Bohemia, and another 
colonel or a major, I know not which, besides all 
the tongue they brought with them ; the men the 
greatest drinkers that ever I saw, which did not 
at all agree with my brother, who would not be 
drawn to it to save a kingdom if it lay at stake 
and no other way to redeem it ? But, in earnest, 
there was one more to be pitied besides us, and 
that was Colonel Thornhill's wife, as pretty a 
young woman as I have seen. She is Sir John 
Greenvil's sister, and has all his good -nature, 
with a great deal of beauty and modesty, and 
wit enough. This innocent creature is sacrificed 
to the veriest beast that ever was. The first day 



308 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

she came hither he intended, it seems, to have 
come with her, but by the way called in to see 
an old acquaintance, and bid her go on, he would 
overtake her, but did not come till next night, and 
then so drunk he was led immediately to bed, 
whither she was to follow him when she had 
supped. I blest myself at her patience, as you 
may do that I could find anything to fill up this 
paper withal. Adieu. 



Letter 6S. — In this scrap of writing we find that 
Temple is again in England with certain proposals from 
his father, and ready to discuss the " treaty," as Dorothy 
calls it, with her brother Peyton. The few remaining 
letters deal with the treaty. Temple would probably 
return to London when he left Ireland, and letters 
would pass frequently between them. There seems to 
have been some hitch as to who should appear in the 
treaty. Dorothy's brother had spoken of and behaved 
to Temple with all disrespect, but, now that he is re- 
conciled to the marriage, Dorothy would have him 
appear, at least formally, in the negotiations. The last 
letter of this chapter, which is dated October 2nd, calls 
on Temple to come down to Kent, to Peyton's house ; 
and it is reasonable to suppose that at this interview 
all was practically settled to the satisfaction of those 
two who were most deeply concerned in the negotiation. 

I did so promise myself a letter on Friday that 
I am very angry I had it not, though I know you 
were not come to town when it should have been 



Visiting. 309 

writ. But did not you tell me you should not 

stay above a day or two ? What is it that has 

kept you longer ? I am pleased, though, that you 

are out of the power of so uncertain things as the 

winds and the sea, which I never feared for my 

self, but did extremely apprehend for you. You 

will find a packet of letters to read, and maybe 

have met with them already. If you have, you 

are so tired that 'tis but reasonable I should spare 

you in this. For, [to] say truth, I have not time 

to make this longer ; besides that if I had, my pen 

is so very good that it writes an invisible hand, I 

think ; I am sure I cannot read it myself. If your 

eyes are better, you will find that I intended to 

assure you I am 

Yours. 

Letter 69. 

I am but newly waked out of an unquiet sleep, 
and I find it so late that if I write at all it must 
be now. Some company that was here last night 
kept us up till three o'clock, and then we lay three 
in a bed, which was all the same to me as if we 
had not gone to bed at all. Since dinner they 
are all gone, and our company with them part of 
the way, and with much ado I got to be excused, 
that I might recover a little sleep, but am so 
moped yet that, sure, this letter will be nonsense. 

I would fain tell you, though, that your father 
is mistaken, and that you are not, if you believe 



310 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

that I have all the kindness and tenderness for 
you my heart is capable of. Let me assure you 
(whate'er your father thinks) that had you .£20,000 
a year I could love you no more than I do, and 
should be far from showing it so much lest it 
should look like a desire of your fortune, which, 
as to myself, I value as little as anybody in the 
world, and in this age of changes ; but certainly 
I know what an estate is. I have seen my father's 
reduced, better than £4000, to not £400 a year, 
and I thank God I never felt the change in any- 
thing that I thought necessary. I never wanted, 
nor am confident I never shall. But yet, I would 
not be thought so inconsiderate a person as not 
to remember that it is expected from all people 
that have sense that they should act with reason, 
that to all persons some proportion of fortune is 
necessary, according to their several qualities, and 
though it is not required that one should tie one- 
self to just so much, and something is left for 
one's inclination, and the difference in the persons 
to make, yet still within such a compass, — and 
such as lay more upon these considerations than 
they will bear, shall infallibly be condemned by all 
sober persons. If any accident out of my power 
should bring me to necessity though never so 
great, I should not doubt with God's assistance 
but to bear it as well as anybody, and I should 
never be ashamed on't if He pleased to send it 
me ; but if by my own folly I had put it upon 



Visiting. 311 

myself, the case would be extremely altered. If 
ever this comes to a treaty, I shall declare that in 
my own choice I prefer you much before any other 
person in the world, and all that this inclination 
in me (in the judgment of any persons of honour 
and discretion) will bear, I shall desire may be 
laid upon it to the uttermost of what they can 
allow. And if your father please to make up the 
rest, I know nothing that is like to hinder me 
from being yours. But if your father, out of 
humour, shall refuse to treat with such friends as 
I have, let them be what they will, it must end 
here ; for though I was content, for your sake, to 
lose them, and all the respect they had for me, 
yet, now I have done that, I'll never let them see 
that I have so little interest in you and yours as 
not to prevail that my brother may be admitted 
to treat for me. Sure, when a thing of course 
and so much reason as that (unless I did disclose 
to all the world he were my enemy), it must be 
expected whensoever I dispose of myself he should 
be made no stranger to it. When that shall be 
refused me, I may be justly reproached that I 
deceived myself when I expected to be at all 
valued in a family that I am a stranger to, or 
that I should be considered with any respect 
because I had a kindness for you, that made me 
not value my own interests. 

I doubt much whether all this be sense or not ; 
I find my head so heavy. But that which I 



312 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

would say is, in short, this : if I did say once 
that my brother should have nothing to do in't, 
'twas when his carriage towards me gave me 
such an occasion as could justify the keeping 
that distance with him ; but now it would look 
extremely unhandsome in me, and, sure, I hope 
your father would not require it of me. If he 
does, I must conclude he has no value for me, 
and, sure, I never disobliged him to my know- 
ledge, and should, with all the willingness imagin- 
able, serve him if it lay in my power. 

Good God ! what an unhappy person am I. 
All the world is so almost. Just now they are 
telling me of a gentleman near us that is the most 
wretched creature made (by the loss of a wife that 
he passionately loved) that can be. If your father 
would but in some measure satisfy my friends 
that I might but do it in any justifiable manner, 
you should dispose me as you pleased, carry me 
whither you would, all places of the world would 
be alike to me where you were, and I should not 
despair of carrying myself so towards him as 
might deserve a better opinion from him. 

I am yours. 

Letter 70. 

My doubts and fears were not at all increased 
by that which gives you so many, nor did I 
apprehend that your father might not have been 
prevailed with to have allowed my brother's 



Visiting. 3 1 3 

being seen in the treaty ; for as to the thing itself, 
whether he appears in't or not, 'twill be the same. 
He cannot but conclude my brother Peyton would 
not do anything in it without the others' consent. 
I do not pretend to any share in your father's 
kindness, as having nothing in me to merit it ; 
but as much a stranger as I am to him, I 
should have taken it very ill if I had desired it 
of him, and he had refused it me. I do not 
believe my brother has said anything to his 
prejudice, unless it were in his persuasions to me, 
and there it did not injure him at all. If he 
takes it ill that my brother appears so very averse 
to the match, I may do so too, that he was the 
same ; and nothing less than my kindness for you 
could have made me take so patiently as I did 
his saying to some that knew me at York that 
he was forced to bring you thither and afterwards 
to send you over lest you should have married 
me. This was not much to my advantage, nor 
hardly civil, I think, to any woman ; yet I never 
so much as took the least notice on't, nor had 
not now, but for this occasion ; yet, sure, it con- 
cerns me to be at least as nice as he in point of 
honour. I think 'tis best for me to end here lest 
my anger should make me lose that respect I 
would always have for your father, and 'twere 
not amiss, I think, that I devoted it all towards 
you for being so idle as to run out of your bed to 
catch such a cold. 



314 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

If you come hither you must expect to be 
chidden so much that you will wish that you had 
stayed till we came up, when perhaps I might 
have almost forgot half my quarrel to you. At 
this present I can assure you I am pleased with 
nobody but your sister, and her I love extremely, 
and will call her pretty ; say what you will, I 
know she must be so, though I never saw more 
of her than what her letters show. She shall 
have two "spots" [carriage dogs] if she please (for 
I had just such another given me after you were 
gone), or anything else that is in the power of 

Yours. 

Letter 71. 

Monday, October the 2nd [1654]. 

After a long debate with myself how to 
satisfy you and remove that rock (as you call it), 
which in your apprehensions is of so great danger, 
I am at last resolved to let you see that I value 
your affections for me at as high a rate as you 
yourself can set it, and that you cannot have 
more of tenderness for me and my interests than I 
shall ever have for yours. The particulars how 
I intend to make this good you shall know when 
I see you ; which since I find them here more 
irresolute in point of time (though not as to 
the journey itself) than I hoped they would have 
been, notwithstanding your quarrel to me, and the 
apprehension you would make me believe you 



Visiting. 3 1 5 

had that I do not care to see you, pray come 
hither and try whether you shall be welcome or 
not ! In sober earnest now I must speak with you ; 
and to that end if your occasions will [serve] come 
down to Canterbury. Send some one when you 
are there, and you shall have further directions. 

You must be contented not to stay here above 
two or three hours. I shall tell you my reason 
when you come. And pray inform yourself of 
all that your father will do on this occasion, that 
you may tell it me only ; therefore let it be 
plainly and sincerely what he intends and all. 

I will not hinder your coming away so much 
as the making - this letter a little longer might 
take away from your time in reading it. 'Tis 
enough to tell you I am ever 

Yours. 



CHAPTER VII. 

THE END OF THE THIRD VOLUME. 

This short series of notes was written, I think, during a 
visit to London after the formal betrothal and before 
the marriage. These notes were evidently written upon 
the trivial occasions of the day, more perhaps for the 
sake of writing something than for any more serious 
reason. The note in French is somewhat of a curiosity 
on account of its quaint orthography, which is purposely 
left uncorrected. Was Dorothy in London to purchase 
her trousseau ? Where did she and Jane spend their 
days, if that was the case, when Regent Street was 
green fields ? These questions cannot be satisfactorily 
answered ; but the notes themselves, without any history 
or explanation, are so full of interest, so fresh and 
vivacious, even for Dorothy, that they place themselves 
from the freedom and joy of their style and manner at 
the end of the third volume. 

You are like to have an excellent housewife of 
me ; I am abed still, and slept so soundly, nothing 
but your letter could have waked me. You shall 
hear from me as soon as we have dined. Fare- 
well ; can you endure that word ? No, out upon't. 
I'll see you anon. 

319 



The End of the Third Volume. 3 1 7 

Fye upon't I shall grow too good now, I am 
taking care to know how your worship slept to- 
night"; better I hope than you did the last. Send 
me word how you do, and don't put me off with a 
bit of a note now ; you could write me a fine long 
letter when I did not deserve it half so well. 

You are mistaken if you think I am in debt 
for both these days. Saturday I confess was 
devoted to my Lady ; but yesterday, though I ris 
with good intentions of going to church, my cold 
would not suffer me, but kept me prisoner all the 
day. I went to your lodging to tell you that 
visiting the sick was part of the work of the day, 
but you were gone, and so I went to bed again 
where your letter found me this morning. But 
now I will rise and despatch some visits that I 
owe, that to-morrow may be entirely yours. 

I find my conscience a little troubled till I have 
asked your pardon for my ill-humour last night. 
Will you forgive it me ; in earnest, I could not 
help it, but I met with a cure for it ; my brother 
kept me up to hear his learned lecture till after 
two o'clock, and I spent all my ill-humour upon 
him, and yet we parted very quietly, and look'd 
as if a little good fortune might make us good 
friends ; but your special friend, my elder brother, 
I have a story to tell you of him. Will my cousin 



3 18 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

F. come, think you ? Send me word, it maybe 
'twas a compliment ; if I can see you this morning 
I will, but I dare not promise it. 



Sir, — This is to tell you that you will be ex- 
pected to-morrow morning about nine o'clock at 
a lodging over against the place where Charinge 
Crosse stood, and two doors above Ye Goate 
Taverne ; if with these directions you can find it 
out, you will there find one that is very much 

Your servant. 



Now I have got the trick of breaking my 
word, I shall do it every day. I must go to Roe- 
hampton to-day, but 'tis all one, you do not care 
much for seeing me. Well, my master, remember 
last night you swaggered like a young lord. I'll 
make your stomach come down ; rise quickly, you 
had better, and come hither that I may give you a 
lesson this morning before I go. 



Je n'ay guere plus dormie que vous et mes 
songes n'ont pas estres moins confuse, au rest 
une bande de violons que sont venu jouer sous 
ma fennestre, m'ont tourmentes de tel facon que 
je doubt fort si je pourrois jamais les souffrire 
encore, je ne suis pourtant pas en fort mauvaise 
humeur et je m'en-voy ausi tost que je serai 



The End of the Third Volume. 319 

habillee voire ce qu'il est posible de faire pour 
vostre sattisfaction, apres je viendre vous rendre 
conte de nos affairs et quoy qu'il en sera vous ne 
scaurois jamais doubte que je ne vous ayme plus 
que toutes les choses du monde. 



I have slept as little as you, and may be allowed 
to talk as unreasonably, yet I find I am not quite 
senseless ; I have a heart still that cannot resolve 
to refuse you anything within its power to grant. 
But, Lord, when shall I see you ? People will 
think me mad if I go abroad this morning after 
having seen me in the condition I was in last 
night, and they will think it strange to see you 
here. Could you not stay till they are all gone 
to Roehampton ? they go this morning. I do but 
ask, though do what you please, only believe you 
do a great injustice if you think me false. I 
never resolv'd to give you an eternal farewell, but 
I resolv'd at the same time to part with all the 
comfort of my life, and whether I told it you or 
not I shall die yours. 

Tell me what you will have me do. 

Here comes the note again to tell you I cannot 
call on you to-night ; I cannot help it, and you 
must take it as patiently as you can, but I am 
engaged to-night at the Three Rings to sup and 
play. Poor man, I am sorry for you ; in earnest, I 



320 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

shall be quite spoiled. I see no remedy ; think 
whether it were not best to leave me and beein 
a new adventure. 



And now we have finished. Dorothy Osborne is 
passing away, will soon be translated into Dorothy 
Temple ; with the romance of her life all past history, and 
fast becoming as much a romance to herself, as it seems 
to us, looking back at it after more than two centuries. 
Something it is becoming to her over which she can 
muse and dream and weave into tales for the children 
who will gather round her. Something the reality of 
which will grow doubtful to her, if she find idle hours 
for dreaming and doubting in her new name. Her last 
lover's letter is written. We are ready for the marriage 
ceremony, and listen for the wedding march and happy 
jingle of village bells; or if we may not have these in Puri- 
tan days, at least we may hear the pompous magistrate 
pronounce the blessing of the State over its two happy 
subjects. But no ! There is yet a moment of suspense, 
a last trial to the lover's constancy. The bride is taken 
dangerously ill, so dangerously ill that the doctors 
rejoice when the disease pronounces itself to be small- 
pox. Alas ! who shall now say what are the inmost 
thoughts of our Dorothy ? Does she not need all her 
faith in her lover, in herself, ay, and in God, to uphold 
her in this new affliction ? She rises from her bed, her 
beauty of face destroyed ; her fair looks living only on 
the painter's canvas, unless we may believe that they 
were etched in deeply bitten lines on Temple's heart. 
But the skin beauty is not the firmest hold she has on 
Temple's affections ; this was not the beauty that had 
attracted her lover and held him enchained in her service 



The End of the Third Volume. 321 

for seven years of waiting and suspense ; this was not 
the only light leading him through dark days of doubt, 
almost of despair, constant, unwavering in his troth 
to her. Other beauty not outward, of which we, too, 
may have seen something, mirrored darkly in these 
letters ; which we, too, as well as Temple, may know 
existed in Dorothy. For it is not beauty of face and 
form, but of what men call the soul, that made Dorothy 
to Temple, in fact as she was in name, — the gift of 
God. 



APPENDIX 



LADY TEMPLE. 

Of Lady Temple there is very little to be known, 
and what there is can be best understood by following 
the career of her husband, which has been written at 
some length, and with laboured care, by Mr. Cour- 
tenay. After her marriage, which took place in London, 
January 31st, 1655, they lived for a year at the home 
of a friend in the country. They then removed to 
Ireland, where they lived for five years with Temple's 
father ; Lady Giffard, Temple's widowed sister, joining 
them. In 1663 they were living in England. Lady 
Giffard continued to live with them through the rest of 
their lives, and survived them both. In 1665 Temple 
was sent to Brussels as English representative, and his 
family joined him in the following year. In 1668 he 
was removed from Brussels to the Hague, where the 
successful negotiations which led to the Triple Alliance 
took place, and these have given him an honourable 
place in history. There is a letter of Lady Temple's, 
written to her husband in 1670, which shows how 
interested she was in the part he took in political life, 
and how he must have consulted her in all State matters. 
It is taken from Courtenay's Life of Sir William Temple, 

322 



Appendix. 3 2 3 

vol. i. p. 345. He quotes it as the only letter written 
after Lady Temple's marraige which has come into his 
hands. 

The Hague, October %\st, 1670. 

My Dearest Heart, — I received yours from 
Yarmouth, and was very glad you made so happy 
a passage. Tis a comfortable thing, when one is 
on this side, to know that such a thing can be 
done in spite of contrary winds. I have a letter 
from P., who says in character that you may take 
it from him that the Duke of Buckingham has 
beeun a negotiation there, but what success in 
England he may have he knows not; that it 
were to be wished our politicians at home would 
consider well that there is no trust to be put in 
alliances with ambitious kings, especially such as 
make it their fundamental maxim to be base. 
These are bold words, but they are his own. 
Besides this, there is nothing but that the French 
King grows very thrifty, that all his buildings, 
except fortifications, are ceased, and that his 
payments are not so regular as they used to be. 
The people here are of another mind ; they will 
not spare their money, but are resolved — at least 
the States of Holland— if the rest will consent, 
to raise fourteen regiments of foot and six of 
horse ; that all the companies, both old and new, 
shall be of 120 men that used to be of 50, and 
every troop 80 that used to be of 45. Nothing 
is talked of but these new levies, and the young 



324 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

men are much pleased. Downton says they have 
strong suspicions here you will come back no 
more, and that they shall be left in the lurch ; 
that something is striking up with France, and 
that you are sent away because you are too 
well inclined to these countries ; and my cousin 
Temple, he says, told him that a nephew of Sir 
Robert Long's, who is lately come to Utrecht, 
told my cousin Temple, three weeks since, you 
were not to stay long here, because you were too 
great a friend to these people, and that he had it 
from Mr. Williamson, who knew very well what 
he said. My cousin Temple says he told it to 
Major Scott as soon as he heard it, and so 'tis 
like you knew it before ; but there is such a want 
of something to say that I catch at everything. 
I am my best dear's most affectionate 

D. T. 

In the summer of 1671 there occurred an incident 
that reminds us considerably of the Dorothy Osborne 
of former days. The Triple Alliance had lost some of 
its freshness, and was not so much in vogue as heretofore. 
Charles II. had been coquetting with the French King, 
and at length the Government, throwing off its mask, 
formally displaced Temple from his post in Holland. 
" The critical position of affairs," says Courtenay, " in- 
duced the Dutch to keep a fleet at sea, and the English 
Government hoped to draw from that circumstance an 
occasion of quarrel. A yacht was sent for Lady Temple ; 
the captain had orders to sail through the Dutch fleet if 
he should meet it, and to fire into the nearest ships until 



Appendix. 325 

they should either strike sail to the flag which he bore, 
or return his shot so as to make a quarrel ! 

" He saw nothing of the Dutch Fleet in going over, but 
on his return he fell in with it, and fired, without warn- 
ing and ceremony, into the ships that were next him. 

" The Dutch admiral, Van Ghent, was puzzled ; he 
seemed not to know, and probably did not know, what 
the English captain meant ; he therefore sent a boat, 
thinking it possible that the yacht might be in distress ; 
when the captain told his orders, mentioning also that 
he had the ambassadress on board. Van Ghent himself 
then came on board, with a handsome compliment to 
Lady Temple, and, making his personal inquiries of 
the captain, received the same answer as before. The 
Dutchman said he had no orders upon the point, which 
he rightly believed to be still unsettled, and could not 
believe that the fleet, commanded by an admiral, was to 
strike to the King's pleasure-boat. 

" When the Admiral returned to his ship, the captain 
also, 'perplexed enough,' applied to Lady Temple, who 
soon saw that he desired to get out of his difficulty by 
her help ; but the wife of Sir William Temple called 
forth the spirit of Dorothy Osborne. ' He knew,' she 
told the captain, ' his orders best, and what he was to do 
upon them, which she left to him to follow as he thought 
fit, without any regard to her or her children.' The 
Dutch and English commanders then proceeded each 
upon his own course, and Lady Temple was safely 
landed in England." 

There is an account of this incident in a letter of 
Sir Charles Lyttelton to Viscount Hatton, in the Hatton 
Correspondence. He tells us that the poor captain, 
Captain Crow of The Monmouth, " found himself in 
the Tower about it ; " but he does not add any further 



326 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

information as to the part which Dorothy played in the 
matter. 

After their retirement to Sheen and Moor Park, 
Surrey, we know nothing distinctively of Lady Temple, 
and little is known of their family life. They had only 
two children living, having lost as many as seven in 
their infancy. In 1684 one of these children, their only 
daughter, died of small-pox ; she was buried in West- 
minster Abbey. There is a letter of hers written to her 
father which shows some signs of her mother's affec- 
tionate teaching, and which we cannot forbear to quote. 
It is copied from Courtenay, vol. ii. p. 113. 

Sir, — I deferred writing to you till I could tell 
you that I had received all my fine things, which 
I have just now done ; but I thought never to 
have done giving you thanks for them. They 
have made me so very happy in my new clothes, 
and everybody that comes does admire them 
above all things, but yet not so much as I think 
they deserve ; and now, if papa was near, I should 
think myself a perfect pope, though I hope I 
should not be burned as there was one at Nell 
Gwyn's door the 5th of November, who was set 
in a great chair, with a red nose half a yard long, 
with some hundreds of boys throwing squibs at it. 
Monsieur Gore and I agree mighty well, and he 
makes me believe I shall come to something 
at last ; that is if he stays, which I don't doubt 
but he will, because all the fine ladies will petition 
for him. We are got rid of the workmen now, 
and our house is ready to entertain you. Come 



Appendix. 327 

when you please, and you will meet nobody more 
glad to see you than your most obedient and 
dutiful daughter, 

D. Temple. 

Temple's son, John Temple, married in 1685 a rich 
heiress in France, the daughter of Monsieur Duplessis 
Rambouillet, a French Protestant ; he brought his wife 
to live at his father's house at Sheen. After King 
William and Queen Mary were actually placed on the 
throne, Sir William Temple, in 1689, permitted his son 
to accept the office of Secretary at War. For reasons 
now obscure and unknowable, he drowned himself in 
the Thames within a week of his acceptance of office, 
leaving this writing behind him : — 

" My folly in undertaking what I was not able to 
perform has done the King and kingdom a great 
deal of prejudice. I wish him all happiness and abler 
servants than John Temple." 

The following letter was written on that occasion by 
Lady Temple to her nephew, Sir John Osborne. The 
original of it is at Chicksands : — 

To Sir John Osborne, thanking him for his 
consolation on the death of her son. 

Sheen, May 6th, 1689. 

Dear Nephew, — I give you many thanks for 
your kind letter and the sense you have of my 
affliction, which truly is very great. But since it 
is laid upon me by the hand of an Almighty and 
Gracious God, that always proportions His punish- 



328 Letters from Dorothy Osborne. 

merits to the support He gives with them, I may 
hope to bear it as a Christian ought to do, and 
more especially one that is conscious to herself 
of having many ways deserved it. The strange 
revolution we have seen might well have taught 
me what this world is, yet it seems it was 
necessary that I should have a near example of 
the uncertainty of all human blessings, that so 
having no tie to the world I may the better pre- 
pare myself to leave it ; and that this correction 
may suffice to teach me my duty must be the 
prayer of your affectionate aunt and humble 
servant, 

D. Temple. 

During the remaining years of her life, Lady Temple 
was honoured, to use the conventional phrase, by the 
friendship of Queen Mary, and there is said to have 
been a continuous correspondence between them, though 
I can find on inquiry no trace of its existence at the 
present day. 

Early in the year 1695, after forty years of married 
life, and in the sixty-seventh year of her age, she died. 
She lies, with her husband and children, on the north 
side of the nave of Westminster Abbey, close to the 
little door that leads to the organ gallery. 

Her body sleeps in Capel's monument, 
And her immortal part with angels lives. 



INDEX 



The Index contains every name mentioned in the Letters, and every refer- 
ence to that name. The figures in italics refer to the page on which there 
is a biographical or explanatory note. 



Ague, 41. 

Alcidiana, 68. 

Almanzor, 68. 

Althorp, 135. 

Apes, a chain to lead, 153, 156. 

Arbry, see Erbury. 

Arme, 224. 

Artamanes, see Cyrus. 

Artemise, story of, 64. 

Arundel, Lord, 88, 90. 

B., James, 246, 267. 

B., Lady, 69, 76. 

B., Mr., 100, 260. 

Babram, 112. 

Bagshawe, Edward, 250, 257. 

Barbury, Lady, 51. 

Barnet, 24. 

Bass a V ill test re, 1 61, 235, 237. 

Battledore and shuttlecock, 68. 

Beauchamp, Lord, 268. 

Bedford, 33. 

Bennet, Richard, of Babram, 109, 

."S» "7- 

Biron, Lord, his verses to his wife, 

168. 
Blunt, Lady Anne, 199, 203, 205. 
Blunt, Mr., 205. 
Bohemia, Elizabeth, Queen of, 304, 

3°7- 
Breda, 34. 
Brickhill, 244. 
Brittomart, 64. 
Broghill, Lord, 125, 126, 129, 162, 

167, 239. 
Buckingham, Duke of, 323. 
Bussy, 60. 

C, Robin, 255. 

Camden, Viscount, 266 ; duel with 
Mr. Stafford, 268. 



Camilla, Mrs., 245. 

Carey, Lady, 88, 90. 

Carey, Mrs., Philadelphia, 278. 

Carlisle, Lady, 168, 172, 177, 182. 

Carriers, 46. 

Chambers, Mrs., 62, 64, 75, 147. 

Chancery, abolition of, 189, 193. 

Chandos, Lord, duel with Mr. 

Compton, 87, 90. 
Charing-Cross, 318. 
Cheeke, Tom, 119, 121, 127, 131 
Cheeke, Sir Thomas, 132. 
Chicksands, 18, 19, 33. 
Cleopdtre, La, romance by Cal- 

prenede, 56, 60, 64, 76, 77, 95. 
Coleraine, Lord, daughter of, 30. 
Collins, a carrier, 48, 194, 204, 

226. 
Compton, Mr., 87, 90, 102. 
Cook, Sir Robert, 58. 
Cooper, Samuel, miniature painter, 

121, 123, 285. 
Copyn, Mr., of Fleet Street, 194. 
Courtenay, Thomas Peregrine, his 

Life of Temple, 1. 
Cowley's Davideis, 28S, 292. 
Cromwell, Henry, 66, 71, 80, 105, 

162, 213. 
Cromwell, Oliver, 80, 105, 162 ; 

and see Protector. 
Cyrus, Le Grand, romance by Scu- 

deri, 57, 112, 115, 124, 152, 177, 

203, 238. 

D., Mr., 260. 

Danvers, Cousin H., 118. 

Delie, 78. 

Devonshire, Lady, 234, 235. 

Dorchester, Lord, 40, 277. 

Downton, 324. 

Dr., Mr., 216, 223. 



330 



Index. 



Elizabeth, Queen, the little tailor 
that loved, 230. 

Emperor, the, see Isham, Sir 
Justinian. 

Epsom, 24, 105, 114, 135; descrip- 
tion of Epsom waters, 138. 

Erbury, "William, 81, 83, 84. 

Fiennes, William, Lord Say and 

Sele, 158, 162. 
Fish, Mr., 115, 246. 
Fleetwood, 105. 
Flower Pot, the, shop above the 

Exchange, 74, 77- 
Flying machines, discourse on, 176. 
Franklins of Moor Park, cousins of 

Dorothy, 120, 122, 128, 131, 171, 

205, 206, 318. 
Freeman, Ralph, of Aspedon Hall, 

Herts, 112, 115, 124, 196, 260. 
Fretcheville, Mrs. , 279. 

General, the, see Cromwell, 

Oliver. 
Gerherd, Mrs., 278, 283. 
Gibson, Mr., 176, 244, 253. 
Giffard, Lady, Temple's sister, 56, 

60. 
Goat Tavern, the, 318. 
Goldsmith, Mrs., 57, 238, 246. 
Gore, Monsieur, 326. 
Goring House, 24, 27. 
Grenvile, Sir John, 305, 307. 
Grey, Lady, 225, 245. 
Grey, Mr., 43, 45. 
Gwyn, Nell, 326. 

Hales, Sir Edward, 166. 
Hammond, Cousin, 60, 290. 
Harrison, Mrs., maid of honour to 

the Queen, 125, 129. 
Harrold, carrier, 48, 194. 
"Harry, Cousin, 65. 
Harry, Brother, 101, 143. 
Heams of the Flower Pot, 77, 85, 90. 
Heningham, Mr., 173, 174, 278. 
Hertford, Marquis of, 266, 268. 
Holland, Lady, 219. 
Hollingsworth, Mr., 112, 115, 124, 

203. 
Hoskins, John, miniature painter, 

121, 123. 
Howard, Arundel, 52, 54. 
Howard, Lady Betty, 278. 
Howard, Mr., 51, 54. 
Howard, Mrs., 278. 
Howard, Thomas, and Mrs. Harrison, 

125, 129. 



Isham, Sir Justinian, Bart., of 
Lamport, 25, 50, 106, 113, 118, 
124, 136, 153, 157, 160, 179. 

James, 238, 261. 

Jane, 57, 61, 72, 128, 129, 135, 

142, 163, 167, 175, 186, 192, 

203, 204, 238, 246, 258, 259, 

283, 285. 
Jones, of Suffolk House, 151, 192, 

210. 

Kep.le, Lord, 189, 193. 
Kimbolton, 122, 255. 

L., Lord, 99. 

Lee [Leigh], Lord Stoneleigh, 

marriage of his daughter to Sir 

Justinian Isham, 157. 
Leicester, Lord and Lady, 181, 

184. 
Lely, Sir Peter, 173. 
Leppington, Lady, 102, and see 

Carey. 
Lexington, Lady, 103, 106. 
Lilly, William, the astrologer, 297, 

Lisle, Lord, 47, proposed as ambas- 
sador to Sweden, 49, 65 ; the 
journey deferred, So, 146 ; and 
abandoned, 193. 

Littleton, Sir H., 278. 

Lobster, lady of a, 109, 112. 

Long, Sir Robert, 324. 

Lost Lady, The, tragi-comedy by Sir 
W. Berkely, 301, 304. 

Ludlow, 290. 

Luke, Mr., 84. 

Luke, Sir Samuel, 81, 84. 

Lundy, Isle of, 162. 

Macaulay, quotation from his 
essay on Sir William Temple, 
2-9. 

Manchester, Earl of, 120, 122. 

Marlow, 173. 

Marriage Act, 1653, 144, T 47- 

Marshall, Stephen, 187, 190, 191. 

Masques, disorders at, 42. 

Molle, Cousin, 65, 87, 100, 108, 
no, 118, 122, 131, 160, 172, 255. 

Monk, General, his marriage, 148, 

Monk, Nicholas, 148, 151. 

Monmouth, Lord, 157, 161. 

Moor Park, Hertfordshire, 120, 

122, 172, 206, 255. 
Morton, J., 278. 



Index. 



33i 



Nan, see Stacy. 

Nevile, Mr., 129. 

Newcastle, Margaret, Duchess of, 

92, 251 ; her poems, 97, III. 
Newport, Lady, 234, 235. 

Ormond, Lady, 152, 156. 

Osborne, Dorothy, first meets 
Temple, 3 ; Macaulay's descrip- 
tion of her life and letters, 2-9 ; 
death of her mother, 28 ; pro- 
posals of Sir Justinian Isham to, 
29, 40, 41 ; proposal of Sir 
Thomas Osborne to, 30 ; her 
thoughts on marriage, 37, 127, 
134, 139, 143, 185 ; her friend- 
ship for Lady Diana Rich, 38, 
42 ; goes to London, spring of 
^S3i 5° » h er opinions of dis- 
solution of Long Parliament, 80 ; 
persecution of, by her brother, 
86 ; how she spends her days, 
100 ; her niece, 101, 306 ; pro- 
posal of Mr. Talbot to, 104 ; her 
love of dogs, 105 ; her opinion 
of Lady Newcastle's book, in ; 
her quarrels with her brother, 113, 
252 ; on riches, 130 ; on trans- 
lations from the French, 161 ; on 
the qualities of a husband, 17 1 ; 
death of her brother, 174 ; goes 
to London, autumn 1653, 187 ; 
hears Stephen Marshall preach, 
190 ; her quarrel with Temple, 
and despondency, 197-220 ; on 
courts, 235 ; death of her father, 
262 ; leaves Chicksands and goes 
to London, 269, 273 ; on wed- 
dings, 291 ; on Cowley's verses, 
292 ; visits her brother Peyton 
in Kent, 292 ; interviews Lilly 
the astrologer, 300 ; acts in The 
Lost Lady, 304 ; the treaty of 
marriage, 310, 311, 313; after 
marriage, 320-328. 
Osborne, Sir Peter, short account 
of his life and family, 14-18; ill- 
health of, 34, 81, 94, 117 ; death 
of, 262. 
Osborne, Sir Thomas, 26, 30, 90, 
in, 127 ; Lady Bridget his wife, 
127, 164. 

Paget, Lord, 169, 173. 
Parliament, dissolution of, 78. 
Parthenissa, romance by Lord 
Broghill, 234, 236. 



Paunton, Colonel, 277, 278. 

Paynter, Mrs., of Covent Garden, 
32, 48, 109, no. 

Pembroke, Lady, ISO, 183. 

Pembroke, Lord, 183. 

Penshurst, 184. 

Percy, Lady Anne, 43, 45. 

Peters, Cousin, 127, 141. 

Peyton, Sir Thomas, brother-in- 
law of Dorothy, 9S, 101, 150, 
157, 162, 164, 175, 260, 291, 
295> 3o7, 313; his wives, 159; 
letter of, to Dorothy, 166. 

Philip II. of France, la belle aveugle, 
his mistress, 53. 

Pirn, Mr., 80. 

Pinto, Fernando Mendez, Portu- 
guese traveller, 242, 245. 

Polexander, a French romance, 158, 
161. 

Pooley, Mrs., Lady Grey's sister, 
245. 

Portuguese, riots in London by, 
301, 304. 

Prazimcne, a French romance, 158, 
161. 

Protector, plot against, 277, 287, 
290. 

Queen, the (Henrietta Maria), 
129. 

R., Cousin, 261. 

Race meeting, 277. 

Peine Margite7-ite, 57, 60. 

Rich, Mr. 'Charles, and Mrs. Har- 
rison, 125, 129. 

Rich, Lady Diana, 34, 38, 42, 52, 
66, 68, in, 115, 118, 124. 

Rich, Lady Isabella, 180, 182. 

Rich, Lord, 235, 278. 

Ruthin, Lady, 103, 104, 173, 224, 
268. 

St. Gregory's, 260. 

St. James's Park, 246, 283. 

St. John, Lord, 278. 

St. Malo, 141. 

Salisbury House, 277. 

Sandys, Lady, 274- 277. 

Say and Sele, Lord, see Fiennes. 

Scott, Major, 324. 

Seals, fashion of collecting, 38, 39, 

5i, 52, 132. 
Seymour, Lady Jane, 43, 45. 
Smith, Mr., and Lady Sunderland, 

47, 51, 53, 61, 135, 136, 245. 
Smith, Dr., 261. 



33* 



Index. 



Somerset House, preaching woman 
at ; see Trupnel. 

■Spencers, the (two brothers), 79. 

Spencer, Robert, Earl of Sunder- 
land, 103, 106. 

Spencer, Robin, 283. 

Spencer, Will, 283, 286. 

Spring Gardens, 246, 280, 283. 

Stacy, Nan, 72, 118, 163, 203, 204, 
233, 258. 

Stafford, Mr., duel with Lord 
Chandos, 268. 

Stanley, Mr., 278. 

Strafford, Lord, 203. 

Suffolk House, 210. 

Sunderland, Lady, 177 ; and see 
Smith, Mr. 

Sweden, Queen of, her kind letter 
to King of Scots, 230. 

Sydney, Algernon, 51, 53, So. 

Talbot Mr., 104, 105. 
Talmash, Lady, 286, 289, 290. 
Taylor, Jeremy, Holy Living, 24-1, 

242. 
Temple, Dorothy, Sir William's 

daughter, letter to her father, 

326. 
Temple, Cousin, 324. 
Temple family, the, 20. 
Temple, John, Sir William's son, 

death of, 327. 
Temple, Lady, 322. 
Temple, Sir John, Sir William's 

father, 156. 
Temple, Sir William, early life, 

2-9 ; account of his family, 19, 

20 ; journey into Yorkshire, 31 ; 

projected journey with Swedish 

Embassy, 43, 65 ; the project 



abandoned, 107 ; goes to Chick- 
sands, February 1654, 221 ; his 
religious opinions, 249 ; goes to 
Ireland to join his father, 257 ; 
letter of, to Dorothy, 270; returns 
from Ireland, 308. 
Theatricals at Sir Thomas Peyton's, 

304- 
Thornhill, Colonel, wife of, 307. 
Three Rings, The, 319. 
Tournon, Mdlle. de, sad story of, 

60. 
Trupnel, Mrs. Hannah, preaching 

woman, 250. 
Tufton, Sir John, 260. 
Tunbridge, 24. 

Valentia, Lord, daughter of, 156. 
Valentine customs, 246, 247. 
Vavasour, Lady, 287 ; carried to 
the Tower, 290. 

Walker, a jeweller, 77, 102, 115, 

139, 142. 
Waller, Mr. Edmund, 162. 
Warwick, Lord, 235. 
Wentworth, Lady Anne, 43, 45, 

146. 
White Hart, the, by St. James's, 

283. 
Whitelocke, Lord, his embassy to 

Sweden, 188, 193. 
Williamson, Mr., 324. 
Witherington, Mrs., 278. 
Wotton, Lady, 260. 

Yelverton, Sir Christopher, 173. 
Yelverton, Sir Harry, 103, 169; 
his marriage, 174. 



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